


out of revenge, i'm derailing; my youth has stained our sheets, with some piece of me, with some piece of me,

by thatsjustHoneyDewbabe



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Domestic Violence, Drugs, Hurt Keith (Voltron), It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Nearly died, Oblivious Keith (Voltron), Pining Lotor (Voltron), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roommates, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Underage Rape/Non-con, Whump, nothing is romanticized, plz read tags as a warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 78,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsjustHoneyDewbabe/pseuds/thatsjustHoneyDewbabe
Summary: A tattoo placed on Shiro's arm has him calling a man and getting a job at a tattoo parlor. The parlor's unspoken rule? Don't ask why Keith sometimes comes in with bruises and black eyes, or why Kolivan, his adopted father and owner of the parlor, looks ten years older some days.But, that changes as Shiro and Keith grow closer. The parlor, and Shiro's old coworkers come together as a family to try and help Keith find the confidence and courage to leave.





	1. We are in flames. I need you, I need you.

There’s a nine digit phone number in comic sans that’s currently on Takashi Shirogane, affectionately dubbed, Shiro’s arm that starts at the top of his wrist and drops down horizontally to his elbow.

 

# 6

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# 9

# 9

# 9

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# 8

# 2

# 1

# 2

 

It’s big. And it’s wrapped up in some sort of clear plastic wrap, with tape on the sides that are pulling at his arm hair.  
  
  
It’s a tattoo.  
  
  
He got a tattoo of a person’s number. How did he get a tattoo of a person’s number? His attention turned to it almost immediately as he woke up, it’s a little past noon on a Monday.  
  
  
Shiro presses against it with his hand and then lightly smacks it once or twice. It doesn’t hurt at all, which gives him suspicions that it could be fake. But there’s no time for common sense; he tries to dissociate himself it. It wasn’t him who got it, it was Drunk Shiro, his alter ego who cries about not understanding snapchat or gay dating apps.  
  
  
While he does have his suspicions, and probably needs to take off the wrap, his body is in fight or flight mode already. His pulse is in his ears. Shiro has to remind brain to tell his lungs to breathe.  
  
  
In and out. In and out.  
  
  
He’s almost 30, and has a phone number tattooed on his arm.  
  
  
In!! Out!! In!!!! Out!!!!!  
  
  
He groans loudly and puts his head in his hands, leaning over. Is this his punishment for going out for drinks on a Sunday night with two rat bastards named Matt and Lance? Had he trusted the wrong people? Was this from committing the greatest sin that someone can possibly do, quitting on the spot at a long-term position?  
  
  
Maybe so.  
  
  
But Shiro has always been able to find the light in the dark, stay an optimist when the world is incredibly pessimistic. It’s how he survived his job for years.  
  
  
His real limbs are still intact, as well as his fake one, and he’s in bed, safe. His wallet and iphone 5s are on the nightstand next to his bed. The phone is plugged in. That’s reassuring, to a point.  
  
  
He looks at his new tattoo on his real arm. Looks at his fake arm. Contemplates some things. Comes up with some numbers in his head. Then sighs and shakes his head in defeat. He just can’t live without ANY natural arms, that can’t be how his world works. His right arm was barely covered in his last insurance plan. And now he doesn’t have insurance at all.  
  
  
Oh the humanity of it all.  
  
  
His outlandish thought about getting rid of his left arm makes him laugh quietly to himself. Then he sighs, loudly, ashamed of Drunk Shiro’s antics.  
  
  
Tattoos are not really Shiro’s forte. He doesn’t really understand them; why would someone put something on their body that will never come off? It’s puzzling. One or two of his ex co-workers have tattoos that cover their entire arm, what were they called again… Sleeves? But they have to cover them up while working, otherwise clients might feel intimidated. Then what’s the point of even having them, if you have to cover them up for forty hours a week?  
  
  
His parents also hated tattoos, and Shiro was threatened many times about hypothetically getting a tattoo. You’ll never see the light of day again besides attending school. I won’t fill out your FAFSA. Only delinquents and people with loose morals get tattoos, Takashi. If you get a tattoo, we will have to move to a trailer park, do you really want that Takashi? They were always a big dramatic, but it stuck with Shiro, until apparently last night.  
  
  
His parents were gone, have been for a while, but he assumes that his parents, particularly his mother, would maliciously haunt him if he ever got one. Push him around, break his things, turn off and on lights and throw things around. He’d see her face in the mirror every time he brushed his teeth--  
  
  
Shiro makes a mental note that the next time he’s out, he needs to pick up some sage.  
  
  
The best thing to do is to look through his phone and gather clues on what happened last night, because he shamefully doesn’t remember anything past the fifth round of tequila shots at a bar they visited. It reminds him of his days as an undergrad with Matt. He hopes that him or Lance will pick up, despite how it goes against his common sense: they have full-time jobs. They’re probably at work.  
  
  
He enters the passcode to unlock his phone, 1234, a very strong password that Matt harrasses him about.  
  
  
Three unread text messages appear on the green chat icon. He goes into the first two without peeking at the beginning of the third message; it’s a message from a contact not saved to his phone. Something churns in his stomach.  
  
  
Matt:

-I’m so sorry but also congrats I hope it works out, -- sent at 8:57AM this morning.  
  
  
At least one of the sinners is repenting for ruining his life.  
  
  
Lance:

-your tattoo is so sick. Perfect way to celebrate your new life, -- send at 4:05AM this morning.  
  
  
Shiro groans at how twelve words can radiate pure chaotic evil Lance energy. He can picture his Disney villain smirk at 4:05AM this morning. The third text message he notices doesn’t have a name attached. Drunk Shiro is a shameless flirt, so there is a chance he tried to boogie with someone last night.  
  
  
It’s not a booty call. It’s easily the worst one of them out of the three.  
  
  
Hope you like your new tattoo. :) Come by if you need a touch-up or anything, --sent at 2:27AM this morning  
  
  
These fifteen words are worse than Lance’s twelve words. His whole body drops like he’s on a roller coaster. Though, strange enough, as he checks his arm, it isn’t the number on his arm. In fact, it’s an unknown number, any plans of calling the number back to chew someone out for tattooing a wasted idiot are squashed, because he can’t call it back.  
  
  
Then he tries calling his ex co-workers, starting with the one who would help the most. Matt doesn’t pick up. Neither does Lance. But, they both send messages back very quickly.  
  
  
Matt:

@ work, call again around 7? How r u feeling, big boi? - sent at 12:29 PM this afternoon.  
  
  
Lance:

;) - sent at 12:31 PM this afternoon.  
  
  
He says fuck it to himself, and even tries the unknown number. All he gets is a loud jingle, then, _the number you called is disconnected.  
  
  
_ Maybe he also needs to disconnect.  
  
  
All that is left, is the number on his arm. He has no choice. As he presses the numbers onto his phone’s keyboard, he isn’t sure if the churning in his stomach and the nausea at the back of his throat is from being hungover, or from his anticipation that the number belongs to someone he doesn’t know, who will flip their shit fast.  
  
  
Tough luck. He’s an adult, almost the big 3-0. People his age are supposed to face their fears head-on, and Shiro has easily faced greater fears, with the whole losing his arm thing. He puts the number on his arm into his phone. Clicks on call, and puts the phone to his ear.  
  
  
This will be a cake walk.  
  
  
Sometimes Shiro prefers to run away from his problems, this is one of those situations. In the back of his head, he wants the person to not pick up. Then text them later. But life isn’t like that. On the very _last_ ring, the phone picks up and Shiro forgets to breathe.  
  
  
“Yeah.” The person on the line mutters. It’s a man, his voice sounds like a rising storm. “What?” he says abrasively.  
  
  
Shiro takes a breath in.  
  
  
“Do we... know each other?” Shiro asks hesitantly. The man on the other line sighs and then groans.  
  
  
His voice immediately drops lower, “You think prank calls are funny?” he hisses.  
  
  
Shiro’s gut drops. Some dick put a random number on his only natural arm. And this guy doesn’t sound like he’s easy-going, and will not be understanding of this predicament. He gets goosebumps at the revelation. This is a major fuck-up. It pushes him away from telling the truth. Hang up, Shiro, the devil on one of his shoulders whispers to his conscience. Just hang up the phone and find a place that removes tattoos--  
  
  
“O-ohh, okay,” Shiro grabs at his temple, shuts his eyes and frowns. “Sorry then, for bothering you.” Shiro thumb hovers over the end call button, when he hears the man’s voice pick up.  
  
  
“Wait,” the man groans, Shiro quickly presses it back to his ear. “Hold on, don’t leave. How do you have my number?”  
  
  
From the soles of his feet to the top of his head, he fills to the brink with dread.  
  
  
“Oh. Uhm. It’s kinda a long story,” Shiro says tonelessly. He hears the other man dramatically sigh in annoyance.  
  
  
“Delete it then, okay?” the man huffs. “I don’t just give it out to random people, so I don’t know where you could have picked it up.”  
  
  
_Delete it.  
  
  
__Oh my God, he actually can’t.  
  
  
_ “Except I can’t,” It almost comes out as a whisper, “I can’t delete it.”  
  
  
There’s a five second pause before the guy says monotonously, “What,” It’s less of a question, more of a statement, but a request to spill it all the same. Shiro laughs nervously.  
  
  
“It’s... uhm. It’s on my... Arm,” Shiro cringes,his voice tightens. No reply. Ominous silence. He'll call the funeral home to set something up tomorrow. “Someone gave me a tattoo. Of your number. Last night,” he forces the words out.  
  
  
There’s dragged out silence, until the other man gasps loudly. Shiro flinches and expects to be chewed out even more for being stupid, a drunk idiot, but then hears a snort and is left bewildered at the response.  
  
  
“You’re _that_ guy?” he asks. Oh God, Shiro is _that guy?_ Shiro nods with the phone slightly trembling in his hands. The guy on the phone drops his defensive front at the drop of a hat. “Oh my God, they’re so brutal,” he cracks up laughing.  
  
  
He doesn’t know if this guy is making fun or him, if this is all a big joke inspired by his friends or what, but he flushes a little and smiles into the phone after hearing the guy’s laugh, which hints that his mood is lighter. A heavy pit in his stomach still looms, but at least his intuition, or outright panic, is helping him glue the pieces together. Lord knows Matt and Lance would have sent him on a long goose hunt, where he probably would have had to call the number anyway.  
  
  
Tackle your fears and problems head on, Takashi Shirogane!  
  
  
“We know each other?” Shiro quips with hope.  
  
  
“We do-- not well. You’re Shiro.”  
  
  
“That’s me,” Shiro nods, pointing to himself.  
  
  
“I’m Keith. Your friends, Lance and… who’s the other one again?”  
  
  
“Matt?”  
  
  
“Yeah,” Keith recalls. “Yeah, right. Matt. His little sister is a new artist. Lance barged in, you two trailed behind him. I guess Matt wanted to congratulate her.”  
  
  
Shiro hadn’t really interacted with Katie for some time, but his eyebrows furrow. “Katie is?” He questions, she always had a scary knack for technology, her bachelor’s degree is in computer science.  
  
  
There’s a small pause.  
  
  
“Katie? You mean, Pidge?” Keith asks. _Oh_ , apparently she’s still going by that strange nickname.  
  
  
“Oh wow, I didn’t see that coming.” Shiro remarks. She always wanted to work with technology, this was a 180--  
  
  
“... _Wait--_ ”   
  
  
The phone number of one of Katie’s co-workers, who acts like a feral cat at first, the comic sans font, the reasonably big size of the tattoo.  
  
  
So.. it was the work of Satan that led Shiro to a permanent ink disaster.  
  
  
Keith chuckles, “Work of Satan? What?”  
  
  
“Oh, oh,” Shiro feels his face get warm, “Didn’t mean to say that outloud.” he says, waving his free hand around.  
  
  
“I mean, you’re not wrong. Pidge is related to Matt, they’re both Satan, but Lance? Being Satan?”  
  
  
Shiro lets out an ugly laugh, “He’d be one of Satan’s little flying monkeys.”  
  
  
“He does look like a flying monkey, acts like one too. Oh! It’s fake, by the way, Shiro.”  
  
  
Shiro’s eyes widen and whatever is looming over his head quickly dissipates, “What?”  
  
  
“Pidge was practicing with non-permanent ink, they have equipment for it now and our boss recently bought it since she’s great at line art but her shading needs practice.”  
  
  
He opens his mouth to try and say something, but Keith laughs again and it’s crude. He’s definitely poking fun at Shiro.  
  
  
“Surprised?” he inquires, “Happy, Shiro?” Shiro can mentally see this guy smirking ear to ear.  
  
  
By this point it’s sinking into Shiro that no, he didn’t make the worst mistake of his life. He just has awful friends. “I seriously,” Shiro starts, “Seriously owe you one.”  
  
  
“It’s not a big deal; it happened after I left for the night. It was probably the flying monkey’s idea,” Keith loudly sighs. Shiro wants to sigh too, Lance is nice. But sometimes his extroversion and prankster personality even grinds his nerves. Lance also struggles with empathy, and runs his mouth before thinking about the consequences of how others might feel. It’s bitten him in the ass countless times, with Shiro or Matt having to cover for him.  
  
  
“I worked with him for two years, he has... a big…” Shiro hesitates, always attempting to take the high road, “Person… ality.”  
  
  
Keith responds quickly, “Oh, you can be honest with me, really. He’s obnoxious and never shuts up.  
  
  
“Exactly why I said worked.” Shiro smiles.  
  
  
“Oh,” Keith pauses, Shiro hears a finger snap on the other line, “About that. Do you remember what we talked about last night?”  
  
  
“... No. Not, not really.” he mumbles.  
  
  
“Well, you told me about how you quit your job because you got burnt out.”  
  
  
He comes to the revelation, that drunk Shiro used Keith as his therapist, “Oh jeez.”  
  
  
“And, that you wanted something new because,” Keith laughs a little, to Shiro’s embarrassment, “Because you’re about to turn 30 and need something to _invigorate you._ ”  
  
  
“ _Oh jeez_. I, I mean he’s right. I mean, I’m, I’m right. I do.”  
  
  
“So I told you that we need a new receptionist, because our old one quit to go to nursing school.”  
  
  
“Oh?” Shiro raises an eyebrow.  
  
  
“Mhm. And, you seemed very excited about taking it over. Especially because you said that,”  
  
  
Shiro tightens his lips and closes his eyes, preparing for what drunk Shiro said to Keith.  
  
  
“I’d make a good work husband.” Keith confidently states.  
  
  
Shiro laughs nervously, “About, about me?” he points to himself again.  
  
  
“No,” Keth pauses. “About me.” he clarifies.  
  
  
Shiro’s face flushes so hard, it reaches his ears. “I, I” he stutters, “Can act really inappropriately when I drink a lot. I’m so sorry."  
  
  
“Oh-- don’t worry about that, Shiro. Lance was worse-- Anyway, if you’re still interested, then, um.”  
  
  
A receptionist at a tattoo parlour. His mother’s ghost is draping her ghost arms around his shoulders, squeezing them. “I.. am,” He confirms. It sounds interesting, he might learn something new and change his perceptions about tattoos.  
  
  
Plus, anything at this point sounds better than signing himself back up for another job in social work.  
  
  
And he totally can’t remember Keith’s face, which is a little humiliating since they’ve been on the phone longer than fifteen minutes. And he’s his work husband. You gotta know your own work husband’s face. Otherwise, it’s simply immoral, how could Shiro sleep soundly at night?  
  
  
“Oh, oh good!” Keith chirps, his voice like velvet. “Well, if you could start on.. Wednesday? That would be the best. But, my boss would like to meet you today, or tomorrow. I would like to see you again as well.”  
  
  
“For an interview?”  
  
  
“No, you pretty much have the job.” Keith confirms, “We’d go over what you’d do and how much you’ll make.”  
  
  
“I can come in today,” Shiro says without thinking. He hears Keith click his tongue.  
  
  
“You sure? I thought you’d be really sick. I smelled the tequila on you.”  
  
  
“... Nah, I feel okay.” Actually, tequila ruins an almost 30 year old's body the morning after. However, staying busy and going out sounds better than staying at home wallowing and moping around.  
  
  
“Alright then, we’re opened until midnight today. I start at.. Hold on, let me check my schedule,” Shiro hears paper crinkling as background noise for about a minute before he hears the phone being picked up again.  
  
  
“You still there?”  
  
  
“Yep!”  
  
  
“Cool, so I come in at noon, I’m free around 5 to 6ish. Sometimes we have walk-ins but Mondays are usually pretty slow. Does that work for you? I’d show you around.”  
  
  
“5 sounds great, I’ll see you then?"  
  
  
Keith’s voice grows husky and Shiro feels his body warming up, “Mhmm,” He draws out, “See you then, work husband."  
  
  
Shiro’s face is so red it travels to the tip of his ears and past his hairline. “I, uhm, yeah! Okay!! Bye--” Keith hangs up first.  
  
  
He goes to his contacts and begins to edit profiles.  
  
Matt→ Satan  
  
Katie→ Mini Satan

Lance→ Satan’s flying monkey  
  
  
And it gave him the pep in the step he needed to chug coffee and get ready.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith’s patience is like a dam.  
  
  
A small dam. With shitty infrastructure, constant flooding.  
  
  
When people started building it, they said fuck it and lit the blueprints on fire-- built the dam from scratch. Blind as well, the workers were blind. Just threw shit around and hoped for the best.  
  
  
Which is why, after dealing with a girl who passed out getting her ears pierced, three drunk guys who wanted smiley faces tattooed on their asses, and Kolivan trying to get into his personal life, Keith’s walls are about to collapse when Lance parades himself into the tattoo parlour like he’s the main attraction in the May Day parade, without reading the closed sign. Keith, Pidge and Hunk are loitering around the front desk. Well, Hunk is emptying the drawer and actually doing shit. Keith and Pidge are loitering around the front desk-- they all look up with mixed reactions. Hunk seems the happiest, Pidge is true neutral and Keith is the most annoyed.

  
Someone must have forgotten to lock the door-- or maybe this was on purpose--  
  
  
A guy who looks almost identical to Pidge walks in a few seconds later, and her face lights up. He’s holding up a larger man who looks like he’s seen better (sober) days. Isn’t it a Sunday night? The trio all seem a little buzzed. He’s the most attractive one of the bunch, though. All muscle with a badass scar across his nose.  
  
  
“Hey,” the Pidge look-alike greets, casually waving his hand. Pidge waves back.  
  
  
“Hey Matt, Hey--” she looks at the other guy Matt (probably her brother who has come to see her on her first day) is holding up. One of her eyebrows raises up.  
  
  
“Hey, Shiro?” Pidge looks back at Matt and frowns, “Is he okay?”  
  
  
Lance gives her a light smack on the back, “Mr. Shirogane finally took the plunge, and quit his job on Friday!” he squeals. One look at, Mr. Shirogane’s face says that he might not be as happy about the whole thing, unlike Lance.  
  
  
He can’t help furrowing his eyebrows, “Sorry to interrupt, but is it a good idea to bring a drunk guy, who just quit his job, to a place to celebrate Pidge starting her job?” Keith asks dryly. The mood dampens a little, Lance turns his attention to him and just his face sets Keith on edge.  
  
  
“Wow.. what a great _read_ , Keith.” He can’t make out if Lance is trying to make fun of him, or looking at him in awe. Less chance of it being the latter.  
  
  
Keith cringes at Lance’s apparent forced use of new words he’s been learning, “I know you think you’re the world’s number one ally for watching that show, but that’s probably one of the worst things I’ve ever heard you say,” Shirogane laughs at that.  
  
  
“You’re funny,” He praises. Keith pauses, and hopes that his face has no red in it.  
  
  
Hunk interjects, “Does…” He looks him up and down, “he need to lay down?”  
  
  
Keith sees it as the perfect opportunity to slip away from Lance, and from everyone else, honestly. He needs to recharge from people around people all day, plus this relationship with Lance is still awkward, even though they re-started their friendship again after Hunk joined.  
  
  
Hopefully, this guy is a silly drunk. Keith doesn't mind silly drunks, when they aren't Lance. He goes towards Matt and Shirogane and opens his arms.  
  
  
“I’ll take him, Matt. He can lay down in my room for a bit.” Shirogane looks down at him with wonder. He’s at least half a foot taller than he is. Maybe he thinks it’s funny. Keith motions to his open arms, “Come here, you need to lay down.” It’s like calling out to a child, or maybe even a dog.  
  
  
Matt thanks him and starts to warn Keith about how heavy this Shirogane guy is and that he might need help getting him to his work room, but Shirogane’s already migrated into Keith’s arms. They start out with an intense hug, he definitely smells like… is that tequila? On a Sunday night? Before Keith wraps one of his arms around the other man’s waist. He’s honestly a bit too heavy for Keith, but plays it off like it isn’t a big deal.  
  
  
Lance whistles and comments that they look good together, Shirogane starts giggling, and Keith scowls and flips him off.  
  
  
The parlor isn’t big by any means, but for having three full-time employees, and an owner who works as the manager and accountant, it’s modest in size. Pidge and Hunk share the largest room, each having their own side, while Keith has his own smaller room. In between their rooms is a kitchen area for breaks and another room for a new employee. (However Kolivan is very picky, and none of them are sure when a new artist will join.) They’re attached to a long hallway that has the owner’s office and a bathroom at the very end.  
  
  
The walls in Keith’s workroom are black, with posters of motorcycles and paintings of his cat and flowers litter the walls. There’s also a small sink that takes up one corner for sanitation that involves piercings, and a bright red tall compartment cabinet that has wheels.  
  
  
The appearance is the first thing Shirogane-- who asks Keith to call him Shiro, compliments. Particularly, the large portrait of his black cat that sits next to the long mirror.  
  
  
“You like cats?” Keith muses while helping Shiro get up onto the seat he puts his clients on.  
  
  
“Do I like cats? I love cats! I’ve always wanted a cat,” Shiro smiles, he has a great smile, Keith thinks. “Hey, hey hey hey, wanna hear a joke?” He’s practically yelling. Keith wiggles his eyebrows and tries to hide his smile.  
  
  
“Sure.”  
  
  
“Just kitten!” Shiro exclaims, then starts laughing. The corners of Keith’s mouth curl up, and he presses his lips into a thin line to prevent himself from laughing.  
  
  
“Do you want some water?” He asks, Shiro nods.  
  
  
“That would be so great... you’re, so great.” Shiro murmurs.    
  
  
“Be back,” Keith turns the door knob to leave, but turns his body around, “but before that, why don’t cats play poker?”  
  
  
“Why?”  
  
  
“There are too many _chee. Tahs_.” He’s very satisfied with Shiro’s still howling with laughter when he returns with a cup from the breakroom.  
  
  
When Shiro gulps it down in one go, Keith thinks to himself that this is probably why Shiro’s half in the bag and reeks of tequila. Probably was a frat boy back when his hair wasn’t gray. He’s also a bit touchy, and for some reason his little touches don’t both Keith at all. Shiro’s hand is either on Keith’s shoulder, or holding his arm around his elbows, and he pats Keith’s head once after drinking all of his water.  
  
  
“Can I incline you back?” he asks. Shiro nods with vigor. It’s pretty easy to put the seat back since Shiro’s made of heavy muscle.  
  
  
Shiro complains that it feels like he’s on one of those amusement park rides, you know, the one where it spins you in a ton of different degrees and makes you sick to your stomach. Keith counters with, then you’re probably having the time of your life, right? He loves those sort of rides, Shiro jokingly calls him a masochist. Keith isn’t a people person, or a people pleaser, their conversations flow easily though, he notes to himself.  
  
  
Despite how Shiro will probably not remember him in the morning.  
  
  
There’s a question that he’s been tempted to ask several times, his curiosity eventually wins and he asks Shiro just why he’s hammered on a Sunday night.  
  
  
Shiro’s blinks once, and his mood gets… sad. It’s almost instant, and throws Keith off-guard. He regrets asking. Keith’s hand in of Shiro’s hands, their fingers interlocked, and he’s not sure when or how it happened.  
  
  
But it does feel comforting.  
  
  
He worked in social work, for a long time. Keith figures out that they’re at least half a decade apart in age. He liked it a lot, and has always worked in foster care. Shiro rambles off about what responsibilities he had, the kids he worked with who he liked, almost fostering a few himself, before he starts crying a little over a specific event that happened recently. He couldn’t return to work after it.  
  
  
It’s a sore spot. Keith doesn’t push him to tell him what happened, it was probably horrible, especially if he worked in foster care.  
  
  
And everyone has secrets and parts of their life they don’t want to talk about. He can easily relate to that. Whenever Kolivan tries to dive into Keith’s life and his secrets, it pisses him off and drives him away.  
  
  
“Jobs don’t always… work out.” Keith cringes at his attempt to comfort a sniffling Shiro, who was a stranger to him less than an hour ago. But he takes it in like Keith is the second coming of Gandhi, and nods slowly and thoughtfully.  
  
  
“This old-timer just needs… invigorating. Invigoration. Is that a real word?”  
  
  
Keith has to think about it for a few seconds, he loves math and art but English class wasn’t his forte, “Yeah, yeah I think so...  _You’re_ an old-timer?” Keith says with an amused smile, “You don’t look like one.” He ruffles up Shiro’s hair and laughs a bit more. “Besides the hair.”  
  
  
Shiro groans and ignores the touch. The gray hair is a sensitive topic, “I’m gonna be thirty next year. Although, I was born on a leap year, so really I am… uhh.”  
  
  
“Seven and a half years old,” Keith answers. “Perfect age for a new career change.  
  
  
“You think?”  
  
  
Keith nods, then the wheels in his head start churning. Shiro seems nice. Introspective. Open. Keith isn’t the biggest fan of social workers, but Shiro sounds like he really put his heart and soul into it.  
  
  
And they have an open position.  
  
  
Gray is a cool color, but his gray eyes seem so warm and friendly. A strong desire to see him more builds in Keith.  
  
  
… He’s also huge, and would really intimidate any annoying fuckers who come in to stir up problems. Keith is only 5’8” and rude people call him an otter or meow at him, Pidge looks like she’s twelve and Hunk cries at the drop of a hat.  
  
  
And Kolivan is really into staying in his office and avoiding people. It should be labeled as his hobby.  
  
  
“We have a position here,” Keith states slowly, getting Shiro’s attention, “You’d be a great addition.”  
  
  
There’s an unreadable expression on Shiro’s face now. Keith kinda figures out his answer. It makes sense, it’s lower paying, and Shiro doesn’t seem like the alternative type. He looks like the, I go to bed at 9:30PM, wake up and go to the gym at 5AM, then I work a 9-5 Monday through Friday kind of guy.  
  
  
“You don’t have to,” he backtracks. “I just, imagine you being at the front desk, and me walking in and saying, Hi, Shiro!” Keith starts to wave a little.  
  
  
Shiro giggles a little, “And I’d say, Keith! You’re late again, what am I going to do with you!!”  
  
  
“It’s only by fifteen minutes, Shiro,” Keith cracks up , “Cut me a break!”  
  
  
Shiro suddenly sits upright, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” He reaches out to hug Keith.  
  
  
“Oh, oh we’re hugging now-- wait,” he gets giddy, “Really? You sure you’ll remember this tomorrow?"  
  
  
Shiro holds him a bit tighter, “You might have to remind me.” He'll definitely not remember this in the morning.  
  
  
Keith grins, they let go of each other a few seconds later. He then absentmindedly checks his phone, it’s.. Late. Too late. He’s past his curfew, there are several missed calls that really urge him to scram.  
  
  
He wishes he didn’t have to.  
  
  
He flashes Shiro another smile, who’s still grinning at him, and touching his shoulder. “I’m kinda in a rush, ask Hunk or Pidge for my number,” He says, starting to get up, “I gotta get going, Shiro,” His tone sounds a bit.. Sad. “I’ll have Matt come in and get you,”  
  
  
“I’ll miss you, Keith!” he gushes. Keith smiles again and waves.  
  
  
“I’ll miss you too, see ya.”

 

* * *

 

Shiro's sobered up a little bit while talking with Keith, Matt comes in pretty quickly after Keith leaves and eyes him up and down.  
  
  
“Hmmm,” he mutters something else to himself. Shiro looks at him in confusion.  
  
  
“Is there something on my face?” Matt shakes his head.  
  
  
“It’s… nothing.” he concludes, “You ready to get going?”  
  
  
“I need his number,” Shiro whines, Matt raises his eyebrows, “Keith’s,” he clarifies. Matt’s eyebrows stay raised.  
  
  
Matt gets him standing and they walk out together, Shiro sobered up enough. Though, he’s still impaired, and Matt has to direct him away from crashing into a wall as they walk through the hallway.  
  
  
“Ohhh pit crew!” Matt yells over the others, who are standing around and still talking. “Loverboy here needs Keith’s number!”  
  
  
“ _Ooooo,_ ” Lance starts, “Why is that, Shiro?”  
  
  
Shiro throws up a peace sign, “I’m gonna work here!”  
  
  
There’s a collective noise of surprise from everyone.  
  
  
“You are?” Hunk asks, then he starts grinning from ear to ear. Finally, someone who can intimidate drunk people who want smiley tattoos on their asses at 11PM on Sunday night. “Huh, well that’s great, Buddy,” He whips out his phone from his back pocket. “I can give you his number, hold on--”   
  
  
“Hold the phone,” Lance stops Hunk, “I think that there’s--” he giggles, “A better way for Shiro to remember Keith’s number.”  
  
  
Shiro’s oblivious to the whole thing, as Hunk tries to understand what Lance is getting at, it clicks to Matt and Pidge and they both look at the non-permanent tattoo machine.  
  
  
“Lance, you’re a genius,” Matt grins, ear to ear.

 

* * *

 

They set the machine up, it’s still awkwardly placed in the front of the parlour instead in Pidge’s work station, but they grab chairs for everyone to sit on. Strangely, Shiro agrees to it immediately.  
  
  
Maybe he feels inspired. Gotta look the part for the job.  
  
  
There’s a small chance it’s the tequila.  
  
  
“Don’t worry, Buddy,” Hunk muses. “We can help you remember him,” Lance lets out an ugly laugh.  
  
  
“Okayy--,” Shiro drawls out, leaning over in the chair he’s in.  
  
  
“Shiro, give me your arm.” She instructs. Shiro lays out his metal arm. She presses her lips tightly together to try to stop herself from laughing, “No, no Shiro the other arm,” He switches arms, and Pidge starts up the machine.  
  
  
After a few minutes of it warming up, there’s a low buzzing noise that confirms it’s ready to start.  
  
  
She gets out the ink that’s right next to the station, black ink, for bold lines. She’s about to press the pen to Shiro’s skin when Lance hops out of his chair and kneels where Pidge is.  
  
  
“Pidge, can I request a specific font?” Lance says quietly. She nods, “Perhaps the phone number in, comic... sans?”  
  
  
It’s horrifying how she gives a wide grin and copies the comic sans font instantly and almost perfectly.  
  
  
Matt is unable to keep it together by the time she finishes the first three numbers and moves on to the next set of three numbers, and laughs so hard he’s clutching his stomach and wheezing. Lance is practically crying after Pidge finishes the next set, and has four numbers left. Hunk frowns at them and shakes his head to condemn.  
  
  
“You guys are horrible,” But their belly-holding laughter is contagious and he starts laughing as well.  
  
  
Pidge is barely keeping it together too, but her line art is still smooth and straight. Her precise line art mesmerizes Shiro, who ignores everyone else and focuses in on it.  
  
  
“I’m really proud of you, Katie,” Shiro exclaims with a wide smile. She doesn’t look up at him, but she beams from where she’s sitting.  
  
  
“Thanks, Shiro,” She pauses, taking the ink pen off of his skin.  
  
  
“I haven’t actually seen Keith that happy in a while, it’d be cool if you worked here.”  
  
  
He frowns, “Is he okay?”  
  
  
Pidge shrugs, “Probably,” She says as she finishes the last number, a very clean line art of a 2.  
  
  
Big. Beautiful. In Comic Sans.  
  
  
The boys circle around them, their laughing comes to a halt and awe replaces it, “Damn Pidge, you’re pretty good at this,” Matt compliments.  
  
  
Lance whistles and gets closer to the fake ink, “Seriously, thought you’d be a scientist and learn how to make robots feel things. You’re a talent machine.”  
  
  
“It looks.. Really real.” Hunk says. He looks down at a very spaced out Shiro, “Guys, he might actually have a heart attack tomorrow, should we really be doing this?”  
  
  
The other three give big smirks and Pidge is already getting out the plastic wrap that they use for fresh tattoos.  
  
  
“Of course, besides he needs to remember Keith,” She snickers, sticking the wrap to the fake tattoo and grabbing tape. Shiro looks like he’s barely able to stay awake, dozing off on the chair he’s sitting on.  
  
  
“They really hit it off,” Matt remarks about Shiro and Keith, sticking his hands in his jeans pockets, “Maybe they’ll fall in love and get married.” he muses.   
  
  
Shiro wakes up with a drunken grin, “He’s gonna be my work husband,” he sighs dreamily, and laughs.  
  
  
“Congrats, man, you deserve it.” Matt    
  
  
“In the space station,” Shiro declares, “We’re gonna get married in a space station.”  
  
  
The whole Uber ride home he doesn't stop gushing about Keith.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith actually does show up a little late to work that day. Lotor ended up giving him a ride since he had to commute from his place to the parlor. He doesn’t have anything scheduled until 3PM though, until then he’s running the front desk, and Mondays aren’t ever busy. Piercing a few body parts for walk-ins doesn’t take a lot of effort.  
  
  
Maybe he is a sadist, and a masochist.  
  
  
He should have written down when Shiro arrives because in all honesty, he forgot. His phone call woke him and Lotor up-- as they talked more and more, Lotor’s patience was running out and Keith was secretly getting more and more nervous.  
  
  
Keith knows by now that setting Lotor off can easily ruin his life.  
  
  
“You guys are _brutal_ ,” he deadpans, draped over the front desk. “I got a call that woke me up, he was spazzing.” He doesn't mention that he almost bit Shiro's head off over the phone. Pidge is sitting at the front desk next to him, hunched over.  
  
  
“And you were still late?” A dig that makes Keith scoff.  
  
  
“Only by thirty minutes.”  
  
  
“Kolivan wants someone to be here thirty minutes before opening, to get the drawer ready and wipe down the counters.”  
  
  
Okay, maybe it was more like an hour. But everyone has a key to get in, it’s not the end of the world if he’s late.  
  
  
Keith sits up more and supports his chin by placing his elbows on the translucent desk underneath, “Of course he does, he’s also not coming in until later.” He eyes Pidge, “Why can’t you do it, you’re the youngest one here.”  
  
  
“Because,” Pidge grabs the opaque paper she’s been drawing on since she clocked in, and holds it up to Keith’s face, “I’ve been practicing.”  
  
  
The sketch is beautiful, a detailed robot from a television series that Keith hasn’t heard about. Her line art is impeccable, she knows when to make the lines thicker, or thinner, and she’s never had problems with crooked lines. But the drawing falls flat in color.  
  
  
“And your shading still isn’t perfect,” He remarks, she rolls her eyes. But that is also partially his fault, Kolivan assigned her as Keith’s apprentice. Keith was his apprentice-- Kolivan’s training was hands-off though, since Keith’s always had a natural talent for drawing, he picked it up within a few days and never had a major fuck-up to throw him into hot water.  
  
  
“I know it isn’t, because outside of you working, you’re not exactly…” she trails off, biting her tongue.  
  
  
“Patient. I’m also not teacher material, trust me I know,” Keith sighs, “I don’t know why he didn’t assign you to Hunk.”  
  
  
Pidge shrugs, “Hunk zones out the entire time since he’s a nervous nelly, you don’t.”  
  
  
That’s true. Keith and Pidge have almost been infused at the hip for the last two weeks while at work. Her training finally ended on Saturday. Sunday was when she officially started, they got her portfolio up and running and everything. There have already been a few emails sent to them about her availability.  
  
  
She also successfully pierced a septum piercing on someone with a deviated nose yesterday. Even Keith had given her a small round of applause-- they needed someone with smaller hands to pierce problematic body parts like that.  
  
  
He’d never admit it outloud, but she’s a hard worker and makes him proud. Especially when she helped Keith kick out the dumbass guys who wanted smiley face tattoos on their asses by mouthing off and threatening to call the cops. (Hunk was MIA.)   
  
  
“Well, hopefully when we get a new receptionist, you can come back and help me again, and start doing your own works,” They worked out a solution when she first started that wouldn’t make Keith irritated, she draws the lines and Keith colors them in while she watches. It was also against Kolivan’s rules; he didn’t want her to tattoo anything on anyone yet.  
  
  
But Keith never listens to him.  
  
  
Plus, they only tag-teamed on customers who consented to it. It’s not like it was hush hush and behind closed doors.  
  
  
Pidge starts mindlessly drawing again while Keith spaces out. Things wouldn’t get busy until the evening anyway.  
  
  
She brings him back to Earth a while later with, “Shiro? He’s still interested?” Keith snickers a little.  
  
  
“I think so, or maybe he’s coming in to beat you up for giving him a fake tattoo of my number.”  
  
  
Pidge smiles.  
  
  
“It’ll come off.”  
  
  
“Not for a few days, unless he wants to scrub his skin off.” He knows from firsthand experience from Pidge practicing on him and Hunk.  
  
  
“Guess he’ll just have to wear long sleeves.”  
  
  
“It’s been the hottest week of the summer.”  
  
  
“He’ll live. Besides, I’m like a kid sister to him,” she remarks, “He’d probably beat up Lance though.”  
  
  
“Ha, I’d pay money to see that.”  
  
  
Pidge nods.  
  
  
“I know you would.”   
  
  
He looks down at her drawing again, she’s trying to shade it after applying a green color, but it isn’t working out. “Okay, okay give me that--” He touches one of the corners of the sketch and whips it up from under her.  
  
  
“Hey!” She jumps onto the counter and reaches her hands out, “It’s not finished yet!”  
  
  
Keith uses one of his hands to crudely push her away. He’ll never admit it but he does find pleasure in not being the smallest person working here anymore.  
  
  
“Okay, you aren’t doing what I told you to do-- I told you to move your strokes in circles while shading, not back and forth.”  
  
  
Pidge groans, “If you did, it was probably a mean side remark, because I don’t remember it.”  
  
  
“Whatever, and, also,” he eyes it again, “the shading here is all different, see how a few of these spots look darker?” Pidge wiggles her body to move closer and see her drawing.  
  
  
“Yeah,” She frowns, “I struggle with keeping the same pressure.”  
  
  
“Changing the speed of the needle and using more or less dye can help cover up mistakes,” He stops and thinks for a second. There’s no point in telling her all of this if she can only practice with the fake tattoo machine that doesn’t have a real needle, or watch Keith do it.  
  
  
And, at this point, they need three full-time employees, not two and a half.  
  
  
… Kolivan also isn’t here...  
  
  
“Maybe I should have you practice... on me,” he offers, handing her drawing back to her. Pidge’s eyes light up.  
  
  
“Can I pick it? And pick where it goes?” Keith presses his lips together, hesitating.  
  
  
“... I have to approve of it. We aren’t doing one of those, new co-worker picks out a tattoo kind of thing.”  
  
  
Pidge puts her hand to his chin, thinking. She snaps her fingers and looks at Keith with stars in her eyes.  
  
  
“What about a skull?” Keith perks up.  
  
  
“Where?”  
  
  
“Maybe… uhhh.”  
  
  
“My ankle, maybe?” he suggests a little too enthusiastically. His left ankle is part of a full leg sleeve of flowers in bright watercolors, filled with pink roses, bright sun flowers, orange lily flowers and a few scarlet peonies. Hunk did it and covers up all of his scars perfectly.  
  
  
But his right one is empty. Bare. Needs some ink.  
  
  
“When?” They both turn their eyes to the clock that looms over the front desk.  
  
  
Keith glances over at the door. No one besides Hunk’s tattoo appointment is here. Keith is free for an hour until his appointment. He has the person’s sketch done and everything. They have a ring the bell sign if no one is at the front desk, and a bell to ring.  
  
  
As a _responsible manager_ , he should say, maybe later. Some other time. After all, it is _irresponsible_ to ditch and hope that no one walks in.  
  
  
He’s getting too giddy with excitement, his chest feels like pop rocks.  
  
  
… After all, hands-on training _is_ the best way to go.  
  
  
And if she messes up a little, he or Hunk can probably fix it.  
  
  
“If we make it two inches long and an inch and a half wide or something… now?”  
  
  
They scramble off of the front desk, Keith quickly puts the sign up and Pidge jumps up and down in excitement, and they scurry off to Keith’s workroom.  
  
  
Maybe he is a good teacher after all.


	2. stays the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw DV and dub noncon!

* * *

 

 

Their relationship used to be in full bloom, after his boyfriend saved him from the foster home he was living in.

 

And it started to rot, petal by petal almost immediately.

 

* * *

 

He flunked out of his first semester of his sophomore year a few weeks ago, and can’t recall the last time his phone had battery left. Maybe it was the day he received a letter informing him that he was listed on academic probation and had a single semester to try and stay enrolled.

 

The way the letter was worded, the lack of authenticity of it, left a slow ache in Keith’s chest that he can’t explain well. It’s the same ache that had oozed into him right after his mother died, and when he was thrown into the system and the social workers didn’t give a fuck about his foster parents.

 

Unwelcomed. Unwanted.

 

He doesn’t cry but a few nights after, a quiet sob crackles out of him, and no amount of being held solves the distressed feelings that keep building and spreading out.

 

His boyfriend understands how he feels-- to a point, but he’s never been the comforting type. There’s a lack of understanding when it comes to Keith’s constant depression. A week into Keith hoping he’ll stop breathing while he sleeps, his partner breaks and he pounces on Keith with sharp claws.

 

“Stop with these pity-parties, and get your shit together for once. I can’t hold your hand all the time.”

 

He’s right, Keith thinks, he’s been patient long enough. Keith doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s all alone again-- sometimes it dawns on him that he might just be clinging on to his boyfriend so his deep set fears don’t swallow him whole.

 

Even though he’s right, those words that sting him like poison. They don’t give him the fuel he needs to start being productive again. It makes his wallowing worse. Temptation hovers over him on whether or not he should contact his old schoolmates for help; they know about his mood changes.

 

But then he’ll hear the door open, and the love of his life joins him under the covers and holds him so tight like he’s made of glass, and his boyfriend will tell him that he’s all he needs, that they’ll get through this.

 

Then he leaves.

 

“I’m all you need,” rings in his ears every time he goes to charge his phone. It coats his brain and makes him obedient, “I’m all you need.”

 

He stops trying to reach out for help every time.

 

The heavy feeling in his chest, and the numbness he feels in his limbs and head get worse when his boyfriend starts to treat him like Keith’s already in the grave-- he barely hears the screech that the door makes every time it opens. It’s always quiet besides Black.

 

His boyfriend probably spends time with someone who matters.

 

* * *

 

Keith gives up and assumes he’s left on his own, feeding Black is the only thing that motivates him to crawl out of bed. Clothes don’t change, showers are rare, washing his hair is even rarer. Time passes at an unknown rate, Keith only depends on Black for the time since he feeds her in the morning and night-- but she’s a known manipulator and some days Keith feels like the day must have gone by very quickly while she’s screaming and standing on top of him.

 

Something churns out snow and quickly, very quickly, winter makes his breath condense and his hands and feet constantly cold. It makes him feel worse; the blinds don’t offer any sun that he can bask in on his good days. But he doesn’t bother to fiddle with the thermostat, he finds pleasure in the freeze that envelops him.

 

Every few days his boyfriend does come home still, and Keith does feel him lay on the bed next to him, and he always gets pulled into his larger chest for a while. It’s the only thing that keeps him going anymore.

 

On a bad day, a really bad day, after a few days of seeing no one, one where he barely musters up the energy to feed Black in the morning, and wonders how he’ll get better to feed her again at night, loud, unpleasant knocking sounds off at the front door. Keith assumes that it’s one of his boyfriend’s junkie friends trying to find him.

 

Or it could be Kolivan, who’s just as worse.

 

He’ll just ignore it since he can’t answer it, hide in the bedroom with Black and wait for the person to pass by. Then he hears a remark that sets him off.

 

The person at the door says to themself, “Can I afford to replace a window?” It rattles Keith and he bites one of his knuckles. Apartments with windows were rare, most in the neighborhood had boarded up wood instead. And it’s freezing out; who the fuck thinks this way?

 

Oh.

 

Dread shakes him up more when he recognizes that voice, and recognizes that shitty train of thought. He tries to inhale and exhale to settle his nerves, but it’s in vain. Keith can’t hide from him, because Lance will absolutely end up breaking in and entering, and Keith lives in one of the shittiest neighorboods on the outskirts of the college town. His neighbors will believe that their place is being broken into, and it’ll set off a chain reaction Keith hasn’t the energy to deal with.

 

Keith opens the door to the apartment so fast that the screen door screams and Lance flinches. Interacting with anyone makes his hands tremble-- but that isn’t the imagine he’s desperately trying to portray. Because everything has to _look fine_.

 

Everything is fine. He’s fine. He’s just tired.

 

Keith tries to uphold a scowl.

 

“Lance,” There’s no stopping a crack that comes out, his voice rusted while isolating.

 

“Do you know where I live-- what in the hell are you doing here?” He hasn’t been outside for at least two weeks. It’s different from looking out the windows that mute winter. The streets in his neighborhood are covered in gross grey snow from cars driving over it. The cold outside tastes bitter, it hurts his eyes.

 

Lance stares at Keith like he he sees some sort of apparition. His eyebrows are almost to his hairline. They haven’t seen each other since fall semester ended, when they saw each other every day. He jumps forward to smash Keith into a big hug. They almost slide off of the icy front steps.

 

“There he is, the man of the hour!” Keith tenses up at the sudden touch and Lance’s voice booming in his ears. He put his hands in between their chests and pushes him away like he’s sick with a cold.

 

“What do you want?” Keith says tentatively, crossing his arms. For maybe the second or third time since they’ve met, Lance frowns.

 

“A certain soccer mom guy told me you dropped out,” His stomach churns, the words, _“I will never forgive you”_ hits him like a hammer hitting a bent nail, and his chest feels the heaviest it’s ever been. (In the back of his mind, Keith does wonder how in the hell Soccer Mom obtained that. Did he pretend to be a relative of his, or act like his typical forceful self and bother their college’s administration enough?)

 

Keith’s breathing stiftens but he still controls himself well enough to correct him, “Flunked out, actually.”

 

“And no one has seen you since fall semester ended.”

 

“I’ve been,” he tries to think of a believable response, “busy.”

 

Lance eyes him up and down while squinting his eyes, and sighs. He isn’t dumb, and lying isn’t Keith’s strong suit.

 

“You look crappy,” he says bluntly, attempting to look over Keith’s shoulder and peer into Keith’s apartment, “I want to come in.”

 

“You know, you’re really pushy,” Keith groans.

 

“Oho,” he grins and rubs his hands together, “feeling threatened? I could just grab you and mosey on in.” With how much weight Keith has lost since the last time they saw each other, they both know that it’d be an easy task for Lance. He wouldn’t stand a chance. Keith stands in the doorway anyway, blocking the entrance.

 

“It’s a mess,” Keith admits, dropping his shoulders in defeat. “I don’t know the last time I cleaned, besides feeding Black and cleaning her little box.”

 

“You know I don’t care about that,” Their dorm room had always been pretty gross. Their soccer mom suitemate always gave them _the look_ , and threatened to report them all the time for the stupid rules they’d always break. (He never followed up on his threats, though.)

 

Lance motions to his bookbag, “I brought some cat clothes for Black. Soccer Mom helped me pick some out himself.” The edges of Keith’s lips curl up, slightly, just slightly. The guilty pleasure that he needs to warm himself up a little.

 

“Poor Black, is she just a dress-up doll for you?” Lance snickers and nods.

 

“In the dorms, we were laughing so hard we started crying when I put that kitty bathing suit on her,” He sheepishly shrugs his shoulders and grins, “I figured you needed some laughs. Plus, I miss my beautiful niece. I guess I missed you too.”

 

Keith doesn’t comment on that, but he moves to the side and lets Lance in. Being Lance, he says to himself, “victory!”, then drapes his arm over Keith’s stiff shoulders.

 

Black, with her dying loyalty and charm, immediately leaves the bedroom when she hears Lance’s voice, and murr’s and meows at him when he sets his book bag on the ground and sits on the old couch in their living room.

 

“Oh, my princess-- my Black! I missed you too!” She chirps back and rubs against his pants. Keith scoops her up and cradles her in his arms while Lance pulls out a beautiful costume--a ladybug onesie, with matching booties. The attention she receives while Keith holds her and Lance slips the outfit on keeps her compliant and purring.

 

The real comedy show starts when she’s shifted over to Lance’s arms, who carefully sets her down on the carpet floor-- she looks sweetly at both of them.

 

And suddenly, she falls to the ground as a single fluffy unit, and Lance yells timber. They giggle while she still lays on the ground in peace. Keith’s suspects that she might like it a _little_.

 

Keith moves off of the couch and sets her upright again and moves a little bit away from her on the carpet. When he calls her into his arms by patting at his thighs and cooing, Black attempts to do just that, but brings her legs up far too high because of the bootsies and stops walking to fall over again. Their giggling morphs into roars of laughter, Lance clutches his stomach and Keith tears up a little. It never gets old. Keith goes over to her to take the costume off while thanking her for her time, and then each bootsie as they start to  collect themselves.

 

Both of them feed her treats that Lance brings, and smother her in pets and compliments. That’s what makes her lay in between them on the couch. She needs a break, before the next costume Lance has in store is forced upon her.

 

Soccer Mom chose it; a little police outfit with a hat. They slide into a shallow conversation of Keith avoiding to talk about himself, and asking Lance about everything he’s up to. It flows for a while, Lance took a psychology class and he might declare his major soon, he’ll probably be able to graduate early from taking summer classes. Soccer Mom’s now an RA, (Those poor fucking kids.) and he might switch his major over to civic engineering. Everyone else is doing fine too.

 

It’s Lance’s intentional change of the topic that sets them off on the biggest fight they will ever have as friends.

 

“So, Keith,” Lance shifts where he sits, “I _am_ here to visit you, and to see my niece,” He pats Black’s head.

 

“But. I’m here for another reason too,” Lance shuffles at his feet and looks down uncomfortably. Keith’s heart beat speeds up.

 

Even if Lance didn’t actually come here for anything else-- even Kolivan would bring up Keith’s current state. He’s in bed all the time but he looks tired with weak posture and dull skin. An intervention is pointless for him, though. He’d rather go away somewhere.

 

“What do you want?” Keith starts fidgeting with his fingernails. Lance grabs his shoulders and Keith flinches, exposing his collarbone that juts out.

 

“I really like you Keith,” Lance exclaims. Keith’s eyes bug out and he tries to scoot away as fast as possible on the couch they’re sitting on to escape Lance’s cursed grip. They’ve always been friends but a love confession? In the apartment he shares with his boyfriend who hates Lance? Keith opens his mouth to demand how he thought this was a good idea, and how this came out of fucking nowhere-- until Lance widens his eyes and lets go of Keith.

 

“No! I mean, as a roommate, as a friend,” he points back and forth between the two of them, “We meshed well in those shitty dorms and I loved being a delinquent with you.”

 

“We drank and smoked weed in our room a few times, only Soccer Mom thinks that, and what does this have to do with me?” Keith crosses his arms.

 

“I want to help you.” He detests those words, and hates it when people look down at him. “I moved into an apartment near campus when I figured out you weren’t coming back. I talked to my roommate, do you know Ryan Kinkade?” Keith presses his lips together into a thin line and shakes his head.

 

“No, never heard of him.” he says in a brittle tone.

  
  
“He’s close with Soccer Mom. He’s pretty funny, not gonna lie-- okay, anyway, I talked with him. We can put one more person on our lease.”

 

“And you want that person to be me,” he says flatly. Lance slowly nods his head.

 

He just can’t.

 

“Yeah, Buddy, I do.” The smile he gives Keith is so genuine and sincere that his chest burns and he’s speechless. Before Keith can compose himself, remember that he has to stay here, and reject him outright and kick him out, Lance opens his mouth again.

 

“And so, like, um. You know Soccer Mom--” he stutters.

  
  
“--Oh, I can’t wait to hear this one,” Keith runs his fingers through his matted hair in stress. “I can’t wait to hear his judgement about me flunking,” his voice cracks again, halfway to crying.

 

“No that’s not it, I’m here to warn you because he might call the police and report your boyfriend,” Lance explains, putting one of his hands on Keith’s boney knee.

 

Keith’s heart jumps, “About _what?”_

 

That’s overstepping Keith’s boundaries, that’s crossing the line, that can’t happen. Keith not wanting to leave is one reason and the other reason is so glaring to Keith-- yet because Soccer Mom and Lance have the shittest street smart skills, and they haven’t realized yet that in a shitty neighborhood where snow trucks don’t bother plowing, stashes of narcotics and cannabis cycle through their apartment occasionally.

 

(That’s how they afford the apartment that has windows.)

 

“Remember when I left that one weekend because my cousin got hitched?” Lance asks. “And your boyfriend came over instead of you ditching us for the weekend again?”

  
  
Keith remembers it-- scene by scene. The growing tension between them over Lance and Keith’s friendship that grew bigger and bigger and led to a physical altercation when his boyfriend saw condoms on Lance’s desk.

 

It’s how Keith sported a black eye, a concussion and bruises all over his back. Their dorm floor was hard tile, and the chairs in the room had metal legs.

 

A black runt of a kitten was the apology Keith got.

 

And then it was fine again.

 

“Soccer Mom heard yelling and then like, some sort of banging noise over and over again.”

  
  
He groans, because he can physically see their busybody Soccer Mom quietly sneaking through their shared bathroom and pressing his ear against Keith and Lance’s bathroom door. But Keith has known for a while now that Soccer Mom was, and still is suspicious. There’s no way he hadn’t have heard something. When Keith was trying to separate himself from the pain that was pounding into him while still collecting himself on the floor, he had heard a single, quiet knock.

 

“Keith, do you need help?” He had asked quietly.

 

No, he said. He had just fallen out of his chair and hit his head, he said.

 

I’m fine, he said, and he was. He’s always fine. And everyone must know he’s fine, and not suspect anything else.

 

So he didn’t open up the bathroom and let Soccer Mom do his soccer mom thing and help clean him up. Keith tried to do it on his own, because life has taught him that he must always do everything by himself, without anyone’s help.

  
  
“--And he came to me later when you were in class, _freaking. Out._ and I had to convince him not to call the police!”

 

“Why the fuck would he do that?” Keith grumbles.

 

Lance sighs, looking defeated.

 

“Because he cares about you!--In his weird Soccer Mom sort of James way. We all do, I haven’t seen you in weeks. I get here,” He takes his hand off of Keith’s knee and puts up a finger.

 

“You’ve lost a ton of weight,”

 

A second finger.

 

“You insinuate that you never leave your bed,”

 

A third finger.

 

“Your hair is so matted,”

 

And a fourth finger for a reason that guts Keith and exposes him raw, “And where is he, your boyfriend? Shouldn’t he be here to help you?” Lance is yelling. “Does he just not give a fuck about this whole thing?”

 

He left, Keith wants to say, because he’s more trouble than he’s worth.

 

After he rejected Soccer Mom’s help, Lance came home a few hours later and made an ice pack for Keith’s bruised eye, and didn’t say a word about why he looked like he had been in a car accident, or joke that he ate total shit somewhere.

 

Lance voice drops when he adds another question _, “What are you doing here?”_

 

It creates burning echoes that set his ears aflame and he hangs his head down. It’s impossible for him to meet Lance’s intense eyes any further.

 

Keith can’t answer because he can’t figure out his reason-- he’s waiting to get better on his own, his boyfriend must care about him, otherwise he’d kick Keith out or something. He feels protective, like he needs to hold the fort down. This is the home, and life, he chose from the beginning.

 

But it’s been almost a month, and reality has crept in though that he probably isn’t going to get better any time soon. Maybe this whole waiting for his boyfriend thing is fruitless and he’s already replaced Keith with someone younger. Maybe he shouldn’t bother to wake up anymore.

 

He tries to unsheathe his dulled claws at Lance. “This is none of your business, Lance.” But he can’t bother to sound angry or upset. It comes out in a perpetually tired tone.

 

Lance doesn’t take no’s and doesn’t stop. It grates Keith.

 

“Look, I just switched my major to social work. I’m taking a class about domestic abuse-- Holy shit, Keith _look at me_ ,” he pleas.

  
  
That’s what sets Keith off. That’s what closes him off, and he can’t wait to burn this bridge and never see Lance again for insulting his relationship.

 

“This isn’t that,” Keith snaps. “ _You_ don’t know what’s going on. I didn’t know you were an expert after one class.”

 

“Yes it is! And I’m not, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

  
  
Lance grabs one of his wrists and stands up, attempting to pull Keith up.

 

“You’re coming with me, and that’s that!” Lance exclaims matter-of-factly. Keith pulls in the opposite direction to free his narrow wrist, almost throwing Lance on top of him in the process.

 

They’re toss around and start tug-of-war, as Lance tries to get Keith off of the couch and Keith curses loudly.

 

Keith wiggles free of Lance’s hands and pushes him off. He’s desperate to get Lance the hell away from him.

 

“Get the fuck out of here!” Tears form at Keith’s dulled eyes and all the fight that Lance had falls apart. He’s never ever witnessed Keith crying before, it sucks the stubbornness right out of him.

 

Keith crouches over and hides his face in his hands, sniffling and begging his body not to start crying in front of him. Lance gets quiet, gives up on him, and tells Keith that he has his number if he needs help, and to keep the bookbag for Black.

 

When Lance shuts the door and Keith hears the shriek of the screen door shut, his body does betray him, finally, and he cries and cries and cries, for letting someone else down, again.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t see Lance again until he finds out that Lance is one of Hunk's friends. His boyfriend broke his phone a while ago and he lost all of his old connections. After they reunite, it's still so awkward to be around him that Keith tries to evade Lance whenever they run into each other.

 

* * *

 

Keith starts humming to himself as he wipes away excess ink from his customer’s thigh with a cool wipe.

 

“For your first one, you did pretty well.” And he means it. She didn’t complain about the pain at all or move her thigh. (But Keith suspects that she really appreciated the few pauses he took to talk about the colors and lines she wanted and liked.) They ended up talking about cats and dogs for almost the whole time.

  
  
His customer, who probably goes to the college nearby, smiles sweetly at him.

 

“It didn’t hurt as badly as I thought it was going to be.” She stretches after being confined to a single pose for the last two hours.

  
  
“Thighs don’t hurt too badly,” Keith responds. He gets up to the sink and tosses his gloves away, washes his hands and puts new gloves on. The girl in the meantime observes it with bright eyes. She wanted a large dahlia that ombres from a light orange in the middle to a deep, dark red at the soft edges. With her permission, Keith free formed a few outlined leaves around the dahlia with subdued orange ink to help it blend into her skin more.

 

(And because it makes it look cooler and gives it more dimension.)

 

While covering her fresh tattoo with a cling wrap that seals the tattoo in, she mentions how beautiful the flower sleeve that Keith has, and comments on how badly it must have hurt. It was the first tattoo he ever got, and he can’t recall how much it hurt since it was done in a few sessions. The colors are intense and bright, it stands out in the crowd. So he shrugs.

 

It’s been a few years, but Hunk still calls it his magnum opus and will bring Keith out of his workroom hole to show it off to prospective customers.

 

They meet eyes and he sees her face redden a little bit. It’s probably too hot in the parlor, Keith assumes. He’ll have to check the A/C, sometimes it’s a little finicky and it’s boiling outside today. If she’s warm, then Hunk’s probably a sweaty mess.

 

Her friend is waiting for her in the front area and gasps at how perfect it is as Keith explains the healing process and how to clean it to the girl.

  
  
“Do you want to buy a spray that we have?” He doesn’t ever use the spray, but most first-timers do to play it safe. She nods, and mutters a yes while her friend snickers. Keith eyes her up and down and frowns.

 

“Are you okay?” He turns to her friend, who laughs at that question. “Make sure she eats something, she looks a little pale.”

 

After he rings her up and gives her his card with his email in case she wants more done or a color touch-up, he notices that her number is written on the receipt he looks over when they step out of the parlor.

 

Strange, he thinks, looking it over and flipping it to see if there’s anything else written. Maybe she wants Keith to message her about her tattoo?

  
  
But she has his email…?

 

Keith puts it underneath everything in the cash register drawer, he’ll ask Pidge or Hunt about why she did it later.

 

Someone comes into the parlor and Keith looks up to meet a familiar face. He smiles and feels something in his chest, something he used to feel a long, long time ago. So long ago it’s become unfamiliar.

 

* * *

 

Hours after Lance leaves, his boyfriend comes home later that night with takeout in his hands. Chinese food. Keith stands in the doorway of the bedroom, observing him with his red eyes.

 

Something’s off. He’s sweaty and he shut the door to their apartment harder than he usually does. As he puts a boot up on a chair and starts to untie his shoes, he finally notices Keith and his face softens.

 

“You’re up,” he smiles. Keith perks up instantly, his heart flurrying against his ribcage. It’s his favorite melody, that gentle and deep voice-- he wishes he could have all of it and share it with nobody else.

 

“You’re back,” Keith relaxes with a small grin and joins him in the kitchen.

 

His boyfriend takes the other boot off, tosses them mindlessly on the floor, and motions to the food on the table. Keith presses into his chest.

 

“Figured there’d be no food, is mapo tofu extra spicy good?”

  
  
Keith settles with his arms around his chest, purring into him.

  
  
His boyfriend pulls Keith up by his chin so it’s easier for their lips to meet.

 

“Hey Kitten.” He presses Keith closer and he’s so happy that his partner didn’t abandon him like everyone else-- and that they’re fine.

  
  
“Sounds great,” Keith says happily.

 

They let go and Keith goes to get glasses of water while his boyfriend sits at the table and unboxes some of his order, and that’s when Keith stops his bliss and begins to eye him suspiciously.

  
  
S _omething is off_. Keith doesn’t know what it is yet. However, he knows when his boyfriend is angry, and he knows when he’s brewing over something. Their apartment is cold and his food isn’t spicy whatsoever, but beads of sweat are dripping from his hairline to his chin and jaw, like tears.

 

It’s like walking on glass sometimes with him, and Keith needs to be careful about where he steps.

 

His boyfriend looks up and notices Keith’s obvious look of concern.

 

“Is there something on my face?” Another clue from his tone, he’s upset over something.

 

Keith tries to play it safe. “Are you okay?”

  
  
“I’m fine. You’ve been in bed for almost a month, worry about yourself.” Shut out. But then his boyfriend picks up his glass of water and suddenly drops it onto the table with a loud clunk that makes Keith flinch back. Water goes everywhere like a sprinkler.

 

Keith notices that his hands are violently shaking and he jumps into action.

 

“You’re not, you aren’t--” Keith reaches his hands out and holds his boyfriend’s hands, they’re palmy, pale and freezing.

 

“What’s going on?” he asks, it rolls off of his tongue as accusatory instead of fearful or worried and he regrets it immediately when his boyfriend rips his hands away.

 

“I told you to worry about yourself, didn’t I?” he snaps. Then sighs.

 

He’s silent after that, it sends a shiver through Keith, because he thinks he knows why he looks so sick. But the only thing he can do now is wait for an answer. If he doesn’t wait for his boyfriend to calm down, it’ll spiral into another fight. He scoots his chair out to get a roll of paper towel from the kitchen counter to wipe up the water on the table.

 

That’s when his partner starts to erupt.

 

“Who was here, earlier?”

  
  
Fuck.

 

Keith freezes and doesn’t turn around, how the fuck does he know Lance was over?

  
  
“No one important--”

  
  
“I heard it was a skinny brown kid, are you still talking to him?”

  
  
Keith hums and tries to play dumb, his shoulders drop.

 

“Who?”

  
  
“ _Lance._ ” He slams his fist on the table.

 

_Fuck._

 

“Yeah,” Keith confesses, trying to sound nonchalant. He starts fiddling with the roll of paper towel in his hands and turns around to face his boyfriend. He looks furious and Keith mentally curses to himself, because he’s finally back but nothing has changed-- they’re right back to fighting again.

 

“He showed up, barged in and I kicked him out.” He kicks the air with one of his legs to try and convince him. "He's no one important."

  
  
“Right.”

 

It flares Keith’s irritation and puts his hands on his hips. “What? Are you serious?”

  
  
His boyfriend gets out of his chair and stands up. He’s almost twice the size of Keith, especially with all the weight Keith has lost, and his fists are gripped so tightly that Keith knows he’s trying trying to contain himself.

 

“I am,” he grits his teeth, “You two have always been... close.”

 

The constant insinuation makes Keith’s blood start to boil. He feels his heart pulse in his ears and his jaw clench.

 

_I’ve waited for you for weeks for help, and this whole time you thought I was cheating on you?_

  
  
“We were roommates in the dorms.” he can’t help shouting, and adds, “I was still at your place every weekend.”

  
  
“That’s five days during the week that you weren’t with me,” he counters. Keith throws the paper towel roll on the floor.

 

“You have this idea in your head that I’m always cheating on you-- I don’t get it.” he huffs. “Fine, let’s play this game-- where have _you_ been?”

 

“Out,” Is all he gets as a response with eyes that are downcast and clearly, clearly tell him that his boyfriend is lying out of his ass.

 

Keith burns.

 

“Out? Out?” His voice booms and he hits the kitchen counter with one of his hands. “You were just, out?”

  
  
“Yeah,” he points an accusatory finger at Keith. “Some of us have to do shit to not get evicted from here, and not mope around in bed all day.”

  
  
His cruelty stings.

 

But two can play at this game.

 

“Yeah, like shooting up, and fucking other kids?” His boyfriend twitches but stays silent, because that’s exactly what he’s been doing-- constantly accusing Keith of being unfaithful, being gone for weeks at a time, coming home smelling like someone else--

 

The sweating? How palmy and shaky his hands are? He doesn’t need to put two and two together, these are clear signs of withdrawal.

 

It hurts Keith so much and he wants him to hurt just as much back.

 

“I’m not stupid, I know you’ve been fucking some kid-- what?” he laughs a little in disbelief when he gets a face of shock in return. “Am I too old for you now? Gotta be under eighteen for you to get it up?”

 

His boyfriend grabs the glass cup he slammed on the table and hurls it at Keith, missing his face by only a few inches, and shattering glass everywhere. Keith starts feeling his pulse in his ears and his heart thumping against his chest.

  
  
“God, I knew it, I always knew you were more trouble than you’re worth,” he shouts.

  
  
_God_ , that stings Keith to his core.

 

Keith crosses his arms. “Since you’re _so_ convinced that I’m cheating on you with Lance, I’ll tell you, he offered me a place to live because he knows that you treat me like shit.”

  
  
“ _Did_ he now?” There’s fury in his boyfriend’s eyes.

  
  
“Yes, and I can leave.” He points at the door, “No, I _will_ leave--” And it isn’t the first time Keith has threatened to do that.

 

That sets something off, and he starts approaching Keith, who’s backing up against one of the kitchen counters, like a cornered feral cat.

 

“You wanna leave, Kitten? He’ll get tired of you soon enough. Sometimes I hope I come home to an empty apartment.”

 

He wants to cry but instead Keith straightens out his posture and puffs his chest out.

 

“Yeah?” He grips the edges of the counter. “Tired of me calling you out on your bullshit?”

 

The hit he gets as a response would have sent him to the ground if he hadn’t been gripping the it. Maybe he did it unconsciously because he knows by now when it’s coming. Keith stops breathing for a few seconds, disoriented, and his ears start to ring.

  
  
That’s when he feels a sharp tug at his sweater, and the expression on his boyfriend’s face is unreadable and it sends chills down his spine-- Keith tries to bite at his hand and gets another slap for it that makes him gasp and his vision blur.

 

“Get _off_ of me,” Keith yells, and digs his nails into his boyfriend’s hands. That helps him struggle free and step back a few feet. They meet eyes and stop at a standstill. Keith’s pants fill the silence of the room as he presses his hand to where his boyfriend’s fist met it.

 

He knows that if his partner lunges, he can grab a chair to throw to defend himself. Then Keith will grab a kitchen knife and speed to the bathroom and lock the door. He knows that he’ll never hurt Black. The dead phone he’s been charging won’t be in reach in time, but it’s a chance he has to make.

 

But Keith doesn’t have to go through with his plans, because his boyfriend loudly sighs and drops his shoulders, aggression dissipating like it was never here to begin with. Or that Keith is the odd one for being so wound up and upset.

 

“Kitten, I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve been nowhere good. I’m back because I realized I need you with me.”

  
  
His face throbs still, but it’s enough to get him to calm down.

 

“It’s… it’s fine,” Keith reassures him, his heart still thumping against his chest.

 

He himself _did_ explode over a few questions.

 

Keith swallows, “I’m sorry for the threats. About leaving.”

  
  
“Look, we both fucked up,” His boyfriend looks over at their table. “Our food’s gonna get cold, wanna watch a movie, and smoke?”

 

It’s a shitty wild west movie that his boyfriend found on Netflix, their guilty pleasure. After half an hour, their apartment is filled with billowing smoke and smells musky.

 

His boyfriend tries to fill him in on what he’s been doing, without breaching sensitive topics of why he’s withdrawing, and why he’s been gone for weeks and smells like someone else. He comments about Keith’s weight loss, how bony he is, and jokes about how he’ll have to smoke more often to get his appetite back.

 

The aftereffects of the fight wound Keith up and it takes a few hits for his shoulders to relax, his face stops aching and he melts into his boyfriend’s arms, content.

 

Like he’s said many times, over and over.

 

He’s fine.

 

They’re fine.

 

He didn’t need Lance’s help because everything is fine.

 

Halfway through the movie, hands start to grope at him. One at the top of this thighs, and the other inside his sweater over his chest.

 

“I.. Tonight’s been weird,” Keith tries to shake the hands off, “Can we do stuff tomorrow? I like how we are.”

 

“That’s exactly why I want to,” his partner bites at his ear lobe. “Besides, remember last time?”

  
  
No, Keith barely does. He never does. After he got out of the system, any sort of sexual touch freaks him out. The only way he can cope is being high on something or intoxicated.

 

“You really liked it last time, when you were this high.” His boyfriend’s voice get low. Keith doesn’t believe him, but nods hesitantly. The last thing he wants is another fight, because his boyfriend will just take what he wants anyway.

 

“Fine.” He wants the hands to stop, at least until he gets more high. “After the movie? I need a bit more to relax.”

  
  
His boyfriend removes his hands and sighs while Keith sits up and rolls up another blunt to smoke. It’ll make him feel awful and take the pink out of his face as he comes down, but it’s the only way he can stomach touch.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the front door shutting is what stirs Keith awake the next afternoon, completely naked and underneath a warm comforter.

 

The nausea is unwavering. Sore thighs and the aching bite marks on his neck feel gross and he feels more violated than anything. The side of his face where he was hit throbs.

 

Keith wants a shower, he always wants a shower or two after nights like these happen. Black is curled up next to his throat, purring. Her warmth and soft fur soothes his nerves. Keith presses a hand against her head and she opens her eyes and chirps, pressing against it.

 

“Hey there, Cutie, what brings you here?” He whispers with a sore throat. She meows and he starts petting her head with unstable hands.

 

“Really? Well, thank you, I,”

 

Everything hits him at once, feeling defiled, the implication that his partner left him again because something else is more important, his debilitating fear of being abandoned, and rejecting any help that comes his way.

 

“I’m so stupid. Why am I still here-- what am I doing?” He doesn’t know if he means the empty apartment, the violent relationship, or just living and breathing in general.

 

A few days later, there’s an intense burning sensation that ignite at random moments, but especially when he uses the bathroom. Half a month later, he can’t ignore the troubling health problems that also develop. So he goes to the doctor, and through test results and a prescription, he gets a wake up call and learns that he got something from his boyfriend.

 

* * *

 

The high temperature today is in the triple digits. Despite Shiro not leaving his apartment until 5PM, it’s still brutal outside. He flinches when his car’s steering wheel feels like lava against his fingers.

 

The long sleeved shirt he’s wearing makes it worse.

 

And you can’t just wear a long sleeved shirt with shorts-- what is he, in his late teens? He isn’t a frat boy anymore. Pants are unfortunately required with a long sleeve.

 

And who wears sandals with that combination? Not a 29 year old.

 

He thinks that he overdressed. No, Shiro knows he overdressed. But if he’s meeting the manager and the owner, it’s better to overdress than look like a hungover slob. (AKA what he was until 4PM.)

 

The parlor is surprisingly close to his apartment, less than a twenty minute drive when it’s rush hour on a Monday. It stands out, on the second floor of a brick building that has a bubble tea place right underneath it.

 

The parking lot is behind, and getting into it costs $2.50. Hopefully the job comes with parking vouchers, Shiro thinks while walking to the front of the building.

 

Blades of Marmora is the name of the parlor, it’s printed against the long window that the front desk and waiting area overlooks.

 

A younger looking man greets him with a bright smile when he’s halfway through the door. A sticky, warm feeling drips down like honey all over the inside of his chest.

 

“Shiro,” he greets brightly, waving his hand.

 

_Oh God this has to be Keith._

 

His _work husband_.

  
  
And he looks like the model of the parlor; the poster boy. What they put in magazines. Sporting a black T-shirt that has a white outline of a coffin on the middle of it, and black shorts with a chain belt hanging off of half of them, his nose has a silver stud and his ears are covered in studs, barbells and rings---

 

What knocks Shiro off of his feet, leaves his jaws open, are his two arm sleeves and leg sleeve.

 

One arm sleeve has subdued green, red, and gray that make up clouds, swirls of smoke, and a large Chinese style dragon with scales that wraps around the whole arm. The other arm sleeve goes from his wrist to his elbow, a baby blue sky with white clouds gradually shifting to a violet starry night sky.

 

However, his leg sleeve is the most beautiful, like a bouquet of flowers, all over. His shorts barely reach the middle of his thighs and expose most of it. If he picks the job up, Shiro isn’t sure how he won’t stare at Keith’s limbs the whole time they’re together.

 

Keith must see his reaction, but his smile doesn’t waver. Nor do his eyes look flirty and wanting. Or confused and grossed out. Just a--- a small, friendly smile.

 

“Uhh-- Keith, it’s so good to see you.”

  
  
“Nice to see you too, how’re you feeling?” This is the guy who tended to him when Shiro was off his fucking rocker on tequila. First-hand embarrassment makes his face pink.

 

“After a shot of espresso and a few cups of coffee,” he moves towards the counter and partially leans against it, admiring all of the piercings inside for display, and gives a thumbs up.

 

“I feel ready to take on the world,” Keith chuckles a little at his bad joke. He really appreciates the effort.

 

“Good, I’ll show you around.” he pauses, and then goes up to the cash register to open up the drawer. He motions to Shiro to get closer, like he has top secret documents that are only meant for him.

 

“Before we start, I have a question for you,” Keith pulls out a receipt and shows it to Shiro.

  
  
He looks at the front and back.

 

There’s a cellphone number on it.

 

“Yeah, I know that,” Keith yanks it out of Shiro’s hand and studies it once more. His brows furrow and he puts one of hands on his hip.

 

“I dunno why,” he starts waving it back and forth. “I gave this girl my card and she wrote her personal number on this receipt.”

  
  
“Oh, wow, that’s pretty bold,” Shiro remarks. Keith squints his eyes.

 

“Bold? It’s a little unprofessional right. Like I said, she has my email, and can always call here.”

  
  
Shiro’s not sure if he’s being serious about this girl’s… very obvious intentions, or if this is a weird kind of inside joke that they have.

 

“...I think she wants you to, Keith.”

 

In exchange, Keith gives Shiro a confused look.

  
  
“What?” he says in disbelief. Okay it’s definitely not some kind of inside joke-- everyone knows that’s flirting.

 

Maybe Keith doesn’t.

  
  
“Usually when people write their numbers on receipts and stuff, they’re flirting with them.” Maybe Shiro’s done it before.

  
  
Keith’s eyes widen a little in surprise. “Flirting? With me?” He studies it closer.

 

Yep, he didn’t have a clue.

  
  
“Flirting,” He points at Keith, “With you,” Shiro confirms.

 

“Oh.” Keith stops and looks like he’s considering it, but then grabs it with two hands and rips it into two pieces.

 

“I don’t need her number then,” he says in passing, tossing it into the trash.

  
  
His work husband is fucking brutal.

 

Keith’s attention turns back to Shiro. “Let’s start around here.”

 

Shiro was already admiring all of the piercings displayed under them. Offhandedly he thinks that it’s good that a plastic window separates customers from touching them. Lance would be all over them. He hears Keith groan.

 

“He still manages to get his grubby hands on them.” He points down at them.

 

“Let’s start here, what do you know about piercings? Have you worked a job like this before? Part of your job is answering people’s dumb questions up here.”

  
  
“Dumb questions? Like what?”

  
  
Keith’s voice rises in pitch, “What piercing should I get?” Back to his normal voice, “I’m not your friend, I don’t know.”

  
  
“What colors do you have? They’re all on display. Do they hurt? Probably.”

  
  
Shiro joins in, “When do you close?”

 

Keith tries to not smile and points at the hours sign, “We’re closing up immediately because I heard that dumb question for the third time today,” They both snicker.

 

“No really, though. What do you know?”

  
  
Shiro blankly stares at Keith, then studies everything.

 

“I know what all of those colors are,” he concludes. “And, they go from small, to big.” Keith thins his lips. Shiro can tell he’s really trying hard to not give him shit for this.

  
  
“Gauges, we call them gauges. Alright,” Keith points at a certain piercing that starts off small, but then as the gauges-- increase? A .16 goes to a .14, right? It’s curled like a horseshoe, and two round balls end each side.

 

“Ear earring?” Keith shakes his head.

 

“Septum,” he corrects. “Where does a septum go?”

  
  
The quiz is unexpected, and Keith’s eyes have a… fiery passion in them. He feels under pressure. Shiro points to his eyebrow. Keith shakes his head and points to his nose.

  
  
“Like.. yours?”

 

“No, no it goes,” He grabs the skin in between his nostrils. “Here, and you pierce it in the nose.”

  
  
Shiro shudders. “Who likes that?”

  
  
“It’s one of our most popular ones. We’re trying to convince Pidge to get one.”

  
  
He forgot Satan Jr. is here. Shiro can’t picture her with one. “What?”

  
  
“It’s an oath, a bond, that everyone besides Kolivan gets a nose piercing when they start. I have mine,” he touches his right nostril silver stud. “Hunk has a gold ring on his other nostril.”

  
  
“If Pidge gets her septum, then we’ll complete the whole nose. Oh,” Keith gives Shiro... a look.

 

“But it’ll four instead of three soon. What do you want?” He looks down at the piercings, then back up at Shiro. “I think gold will look better than silver.”

 

Shiro shakes his head, “I’m… good. With my nose having no holes in it,” he forces a smile.

 

Keith ignores him entirely and continues with his agenda.

  
  
“I think a septum would look nice.”

  
  
“On me?” He gawks, pointing to himself.

  
  
Keith nods earnestly. “Otherwise it’ll be unequal if there are three nostril piercings-- although Pidge could get a nostril and you could…” He stops talking and dead stares at Shiro, squinting his eyes like he’s deep in thought.

 

And stares at his face.

 

"Is there something on my face? Or.. not on my face?" he jokes. No response. His eyes are striking, they look similar to his sky tattoo, violet and blue. "...Keith?"

 

“Oh. Shiro,” Keith snaps out of it, “Gold will look better. Sorry, we’ll talk about that later, with everyone. What were we talking about?”

 

That's a fight for a different time.

  
  
“Piercings, we were talking about the different kinds of piercings.”

  
  
Keith snaps his fingers together, like he remembers.

 

“Right. Well, you don’t know anything.” he says bluntly. “I’m a hands-on teacher. Tomorrow you’ll watch me, Hunk and Pidge work the front and learn from us before we put you on your own.”

  
  
‘What time tomorrow?”

  
  
“... Whenever you want to come in? I’m here tomorrow from noon to midnight, Hunk comes in later and leaves at midnight. Pidge leaves at 10. But on the weekend we’re here for the whole day.”

  
  
“You have twelve hour days?”

 

“It goes quickly with appointments and walk-ins.” Keith says, and when Shiro’s eyes get a bit bigger, he quickly adds, “You probably won’t work the whole time we’re open either. Although, everyone wants you to work late nights.”

  
  
“Nights seem like they’re not as busy?”

  
  
“No, they’re not. But on the weekends we get drunk people. Like last night before you and Pidge’s brother and Lance came in, we fended off three assholes. Pidge and I can only do so much to defend the homefront.” He says very seriously with a stern face. (Technically the three of them were also drunk assholes as well.)

 

“I knew you were all just using me for my body,” he smiles when Keith smiles a little and gives his arm a light punch.

 

“I think Hunk and Pidge are still working now, they know you’re here. For now let’s go to the breakroom?”

  
  
Shiro looks over to the door in confusion. “What if someone comes in?”

  
  
Keith shrugs and puts up the ring the bell sign, “There’s a bell.”

 

It kinda sounds like the wild west here, Shiro thinks.

 

* * *

 

The break room is small, but quaint. Each wall is painted a different color and there’s a decent sized table in the middle, with a small couch tucked into a corner. “This is where the magic happens,” Keith exclaims.

 

  
Shiro laughs a little, “The breakroom is mystical?

  
  
There’s a teal oven with a stovetop and a matching fridge next to it. Keith wordlessly walks over and opens the fridge with a content look.

 

“Hunk and I convinced Kolivan to get it.” It’s grossly filled to the brim with baked sweets, and ingredients for baking. Shiro’s mouth waters.

 

(Keith’s right, it is mystical.)

 

“When we’re here all day, Hunk will start baking. Then when he works, I take over when I’m free. Kolivan helps when neither one of us can, or if it’s brownies. Now Pidge does too. It’s a communal effort.”

 

“That sounds like fun,” He can’t admit that he’s awful at baking and cooking, and will ruin anything he touches in the “magic breakroom.”

 

“You’ll help too, it’s the reason why we all gain five pounds during the holidays,” he grins.  

 

Keith goes to the table they have and sits on it, ignoring the chairs. Shiro is tempted to follow his actions, but the table looks unstable and he decides to keep standing.

 

“Has it just been the three of you?” Keith nods.

 

“For about a year now it was just Kolivan, Hunk, our old reception named Allura, and me. A friend of Kolivan’s used to work here before Hunk started, but he has arthritis that got too bad. Allura was here since Kolivan took it over.”

  
  
“I’m really impressed, this place seems busy for how small it is.”

  
  
“College town, and Kolivan’s picky. He doesn’t like taking risks. Oh, there's a bubble tea place downstairs-- Do you like bubble tea?”

  
  
Shiro is addicted to sugar. Doctors hate him for it.

 

“I do,” He exclaims. “Especially the melon ones.”

  
  
“We go on runs on long days too. And go after work since they’re open until 4AM.” Keith smiles crosses his legs.

  
  
“The pros of living in a college town.” Shiro adds, before honing in on something _that’s his guilty pleasure._

  
  
Keith’s still sitting on the table, his thighs are small, but look strong and have a bit of chub to them--

 

He likes thighs.

  
  
“You do?” Keith asks, and straightens out his legs. “Well, you’ve been eyeing it the whole time,” Keith grabs his hand, and his fingers are rough. (But the black nails are pretty cool looking.)

 

Shiro’s mind wigs out when Keith says, “It seems like you haven’t seen a lot of tattoos, wanna touch mine?”

 

Before Shiro can ask Keith if he’s sure, Keith’s already taking his hand to his flower thigh and places it in the middle of it, and let’s go. Free reign.

 

Well, they are work husbands.

 

He looks quite amused at Shiro’s fascination, without fully realizing that Shiro kinda has a thigh fetish. Shiro brushes his fingers from Keith’s upper high and down to his knee, pressing against the bright colors and soft skin in wonder. He’s touched a lot of thighs in his life, and this thigh might take home the gold, the flowers make it breathtaking.

 

Later in his life, it’ll dawn on him just how intimate the whole thing was, and how oblivious both of them were about it. And that Keith apparently shaves his legs. Keith will correct him and tell Shiro that he doesn’t shave, he waxes.

 

“Hunk did it,” Keith stretches his leg out for better access.  “It’s his favorite tattoo, it’s mine too.”

 

  
Shiro continues to stroke, moving down to his calf and ankle, then he makes eye contact with Keith and they exchange a comfortable, understanding smile. "It's so beautiful," Shiro gushes.

 

And of course that is exactly when a very tall and big built man steps into the break room. The door to the breakroom creaks when it opens. Cursed creaks.

 

This guy, who he assumes is the owner of the parlor, sees Shiro stroking Keith’s leg in a… not necessarily a platonic kind of way, but neither of them realize the extent of that until way later in the story.

 

He stares blankly at both of them.  

 

“Hey, Kolivan,” Keith greets, he lowers his leg and crosses his arms. “This is who I was telling you about earlier.”

 

“The new receptionist?” Kolivan asks, honing in on Shiro’s hand that’s resting on Keith’s knee. Shiro takes it away quickly. Too quickly. A quickly that says, you caught me doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.

 

“Yeah,” Keith points at Shiro. “He’s Shiro, a friend of a friend.”

  
  
“I see,” He turns towards Shiro, eyeing him. “Well, we did need a receptionist as soon as possible.”

  
  
Shiro’s about to introduce himself, with a handshake even-- but Kolivan adds.

 

We have some..” He pauses and crosses his arms like Keith has. Maybe they’re related?  “Rules here, that you shouldn’t break.” A scold.

 

Being a social worker for years has honed Shiro’s skills at reading the insinuations behind people’s seemingly neutral words.

  
  
_Touch him like that one more time and I will end you._

 

“I understand,” He swallows, and feigns his best smiles. Kolivan nods, content with that answer.

 

“Keith will tell you more. I wanted to meet you myself,” He turns to Keith.

 

Let’s,” Another pause. “Talk. When you’re done giving this tour.”

 

“Sure,” Keith remarks.

 

Kolivan steps out, the door creaks again, and Shiro feels his breathing return to normal.

 

“Sorry about that,” Keith slides off of the table. “Kolivan isn’t very social, he’s nice though. As a boss. Anyway, I think Pidge and Hunk finish soon.”

 

“How’s she doing here?”

  
  
“Fine. She did one tattoo today, and after that, booked with piercings ‘till 10.”

  
  
“That’s great, do you know what it was?” It’s mock interest. “I have to thank her for this,” Shiro pulls up his sleeve to expose the number. Keith gapes, and starts tracing it with his fingers, lost in thought. Shiro forgot that Keith hasn’t seen it yet.

 

“Her line art has always been impeccable,” Keith says to himself. When they’re this close, Keith is at least a head shorter than he is. And much thinner.

 

“Oh! The tattoo she did today--”

  
  
Keith suddenly pulls his other leg up and smashes his foot on the table, Shiro sees a skull on Keith’s ankle. It looks exactly like Shiro’s did when he woke up, covered in wrap.

 

“ _She_ did that?” He takes a seat in one of my chairs to get a closer look.

  
  
“Mhmm.” Keith crosses his arms smugly.

 

“When?”

  
  
“Right before I tattoo’d that girl who gave me her number. She needed more practice with an actual needle on actual skin.”

  
  
“ _You_ were her test dummy?” Shiro gapes.

  
  
“Of course, she’s my apprentice.”

  
  
It is an impressive looking tattoo skull, especially the concise detail and shadowing of the skull’s eyeholes. It really fits with Keith’s overall look.

 

“That’s pretty badass,” he says.

 

Keith smirks and there’s a mischievous gleam in his violet eyes, “You want one too?”

  
  
“What, a tattoo?”

  
  
“Pidge needs more practice.”

  
  
“Uhm,” Shiro scoots the chair away from Keith. “ I’m not sure about that--”

  
  
The door creaks open again, and Shiro’s attention goes to the door in dread.

 

This time it’s Hunk, who comes in and saves Shiro from being convinced to get matching skull tattoos with Keith.

 

“Hey Shiro, how did last night treat ya--”  Hunk directs his attention immediately at Keith, who still has his foot on the table, then his shorts, and asks Keith why he changed into shorts, before noticing the skull on his leg.

 

“ _That’s_ new.” He moves closer to his leg and studies his ankle.

 

Keith opens his mouth to gloat more but Hunk whistles.

 

“Did Pidge do this? The shading is really good, a lot better than what she’s been drawing.”

 

Keith points to himself, “I instructed her as she did it.”

 

“Your pain tolerance is like, alien-strength.”

  
  
“Her mentor is _pretty good_ at mentoring.”  

 

“Pft,” Hunk turns to Shiro. “He’s actually pretty bad at it. I had a hard time and he held a gun to my head, forcing me to give him a leg sleeve. But you know, they’re always easier on the second child.”

 

Does that make Shiro his third child?

  
  
“I’m right here,” Keith puts his hands on his hips and huffs.

  
  
“I know,” Hunk snorts. “I’m warning Shiro.”

  
  
“Of what?” His leg is still on the table and he’s starting to look like a delinquent school kid who used a fake ID to get his first tattoo.

  
  
Hunk points at Keith, “Of you, when your patience runs out and you snap at a client again, or one of us.”

 

Keith shrugs, “If I snap at you, then you did something wrong.”

 

  
“There he is,” He winks at Shiro. “That’s the real Keith.”

 

“Real Keith sounds like a menace,” Shiro laughs.

  
  
Keith ignores them both. “Hunk. What nose piercing should Shiro get?” Shiro stops cold, regretting that comment.

  
  
“Hmm…” He turns to Keith. “Actually, I wanted to find you, Pidge agreed on the septum piercing. We have a no call no show.”

  
  
“Perfect.”

  
  
“That means you also have to get a septum too, Shiro. Otherwise we’ll shift the balance.”

  
  
“Exactly, Hunk.” Keith shifts his tone of voice to sound more serious. “Here at Blades of Marmora, we believe in equality among _all_ employees,” Hunk giggles.

  
  
“She wants silver,” They both study Shiro’s face. “Shiro can have gold?” Hunk contemplates to Keith.

  
  
Shiro shakes his head, panicking.

 

“I didn’t sign up for anything yet, besides, I’m not an official employee--”

  
  
Keith frowns at that remark and his denials stop in his mouth. Keith’s foot is still on the table.

 

“I… Let me think about it.” Hunk looks at them both and hums, and he and Keith lead Shiro to the other workroom.

 

* * *

 

 

Pidge studies the jewelry she wants sliced through her when they walk in. She looks up and spots Shiro immediately, and tries to hold in a laugh when she sees the long-sleeved shirt.

 

“Hey Katie.”

  
  
“Hi, Shiro.” She smirks. “How’s the tattoo holding up?”

  
  
“I think my long-sleeved shirt in this kind of weather explains how I feel!” Shiro exclaims loudly, feigning a smile.

  
  
“He’s only here today to beat you up,” Keith mentions, going over to put on a pair of gloves.

  
  
“Meet me out back after my shift, loser gets a piercing picked by Kolivan.”

  
  
Shiro shudders while remembering today’s earlier… incident.

  
  
“Lay back Pidge,” Keith says as he lowers the incline of the chair. “Do you want a .16 gauge or .14?”

  
  
Wait are they just doing it here?

 

“Shiro, of course we are, this is a tattoo and piercing parlor,” Pidge remarks. “Oh, and .16 gauge, I’ll go up when it heals.”

  
  
“Any bigger than that and it’ll take over your whole face,” Hunk jokes, putting a supportive hand on Shiro’s shoulder, instead of Pidge’s shoulder. He needs the support more.

 

Shiro’s eyes are going-- everywhere, and bug out when Keith suddenly has these claspes and  starts wiping her nose with an alcohol wipe.

 

“Woah, do you guys just---” He waves his arms around. “Do this?”

  
  
“Do what?” Keith questions while he throws away the wipe. Hunk removes his arm and goes next to Pidge. They’re all focused on her piercing and don’t look at him.

 

“Keith got an unplanned tattoo today, and you’re piercing Katie’s face at the last minute.” _And has anyone checked the front desk yet?_

 

There’s a collective shrug among the full-time employees.

  
  
“It’s Kolivan’s fault for letting a bunch of twenty-something year olds run the place,” Keith mutters, a little bit of bitterness seeping out that Shiro catches.

 

Pidge smiles, “With Keith as our leader, things can get pretty hectic around here.” He makes an offhand comment that anyone can take over if they’ll work his hours.

 

“Any last words?” Hank snickers. “You can escape us if you leave now,”

  
  
“Nah,” Pidge shakes her head. “I’m ready to join the cult.” She puts two thumbs up.

  
  
Keith just smiles, and uses the claspes to go inside of her nose and clamp down on... Something inside her nose?

  
  
“Since you’re here Shiro, and you failed my quiz,” That’s definitely the real Keith shining through.

 

“I’ll explain the process. So I used this to find the proper place for Pidge’s piercing, then I know exactly where to pierce.”

  
  
“For the sweet spot, Hunk adds. “That’s this soft tissue around the cartilage that we go for.”

  
  
“Ding ding ding,” Keith says dully. “Shiro, what do you think happens if I shove a needle through nose cartilage?

 

“It’ll… probably really hurt?”h guesses the obvious to play it safe.

  
  
Keith nods, “You pass. It'll probably just hurt.” he teases.  

 

With the claspes out of his hands and hanging onto Pidge’s nose, Keith pulls out a large needle from a sanitized wrapped bag. Shiro tries to hold in a gasp. This is all happening so fast.

 

“Pidge, do you want me to hold your hand?” Shiro prays she says yes, he also needs some leverage here. But, she shakes her head and his heart rate increases.

 

“I can take it, Shiro.” her voice is nasally from the clapses.

 

But Shiro’s not sure if _he_ can take it.

 

“Usually I tell clients to take a deep breath, then when I tell them to breathe out, I go in.” Keith pauses. Shiro expects that whole process, and is ready to take a deep inhale and exhale with Pidge.

 

Then Keith gets this.. Look, on his face. Bittersweet.

  
  
“ _But Kolivan didn’t do that with me,”_ The bitterness springs back for a moment. “He just explained what he was doing, and I gave the same treatment to Hunk.”

  
  
Hunk quickly grabs one of her hands while Keith says, “I’ve explained everything so.”

  
  
Without warning or hesitation, Keith just. Fucking takes that big needle and goes right through the “sweet spot in her nose”. But in Shiro’s eyes it’s anything but sweet to watch. Pidge gasps a little from the shock, and tries to laugh over the pain.

 

Hunk lets go of her hand goes over to get a few tissues for her teary eyes. The needle is still right through her “sweet spot”. Keith gets out the jewelry that she wants and unwraps it.

 

Oh God, she’s crying. Shiro hasn’t seen her cry since she was eleven. And she wanted this?

 

“Pidge, are you okay?” He gets a silent thumbs up as a response from her.

  
  
And he’s looking for full-time employment here? And they want to do this to him?

 

“No bleeding. Good job,” Pidge calls him an asshole as Keith replaces the needle with the horseshoe piercing that Shiro got quizzed on earlier.

 

Shiro feels woozy enough to sit down in a chair next to Keith, while Keith tightens the balls on the piercing with some sort of tool. For all the talk he did bitching about Kolivan and cracking jokes, Shiro does admire how focused he is while finishing up. When Keith completes the septum piercing, he looks it over and gives her a high-five.

 

“All done,” Hunk says, “Good job Pidge! Welcome to the brotherhood.” He pats her shoulder.

 

Keith pushes the chair upright and helps her step off, and Hunk replaces the seat paper that Pidge was sitting on for fresh paper. Pidge finds the long mirror in their room, and she beams so hard her dimple shows.

 

Okay, Shiro concludes that despite the whole scene being way too emotional, she does look cute and happy with it.

 

“Step on up Shiro.” Hunk says, patting the chair, earning a flinch from him. Keith and Pidge nod along compliantly. “It’s time for your ceremony.” His face pales, this really is some sort of cult that he’s signing himself up for. The look in their eyes is unpredictable, a bit of evil, and their nose piercings look… menacing.

 

Unhinged and ready to poke him with multiple holes.

 

Dangerous, they’ll haunt his dreams tonight.

 

But Takashi Shirogane is a optimistic people pleaser, and that’s not going to help him here, in this moment. It dawns on him that eventually, he will give in and get a piercing to join the ingroup.

 

Not today though. Not. Today. What saves him is a phone call from Matt at 7PM on the dot, and lying about having to meet him somewhere. Pidge sees right through it, and gives him a funny look without saying anything. Shiro snaps a picture of Pidge’s face with her new piercing to send it to him later, and he hightails it out of there to save his nose from getting any holes.

 

Except he stops for a moment to wave at Keith, who says bye and tells him when to come in next.

 

(He starts training at 1PM tomorrow.)

 

* * *

 

Keith still doesn’t know why he went straight here as he knocks against the door of an apartment, hours after work, with a satchel on his shoulder and a book bag hanging on his back.

 

No one answers, and Keith starts hitting it again out of desperation. There’s no way he isn’t home. Then he hears the door lock turn open, and Keith feels the relief that hits his lungs. He can breathe without telling himself to do so each time.

 

“It’s you,” Lotor says hesitantly, opening it up.

  
  
“Yeah, it’s me.”

  
  
Lotor leans against the open door, eyeing him curiously.

 

“This is a surprise, what brings you here at this hour?”

  
  
Keith swallows, “I need somewhere to stay tonight.”

  
  
“I don’t run a charity,” Lust skims over Lotor’s eyes as he focuses on the man’s collarbones. It’s one of the rules he lives by, never give shit away for free.

  
  
“If I get drunk, or high, you can do whatever you want to me,” It’s incredible how much a looker like Keith sounds so horribly rough and unattractive with his tight and blunt words. No lace and frills around them. Even when he’s high and loose, his vernacular and personality remain.

 

So unlike the others that Lotor has. They pick up on whatever mood he’s in and tailor themselves to what Lotor wants. Keith is just.

 

Himself. Without an apology.

  
  
“What an offer,” Lotor responds dryly. He’s not completely against it, Keith’s his favorite, but... “You work tomorrow, yes? Won’t you be too sick to go in?”

  
  
“I don’t care. It’s the usual, and I train a new guy. That’s it. Fuck me so I can sleep somewhere safe tonight.”

 

He frowns, “Safe? Is the block not safe?” He waits for Keith to give some sort of bland answer and pounce on him with more questions.

 

But then Keith’s satchel meows. Lotor gasps.

 

“You brought that little beast with you?” Lotor snatches the satchel and peaks inside, groaning when two bright eyes and a lump of black fur meows and then starts to purr. “Her fur will get _everywhere_.”

  
  
“Black can’t be there either. I have an unused litter box and everything for her. I’ll take care of it.”

  
  
Lotor rolls his eyes and sighs, “You _really_ test me.”

 

“Please,” Keith begs, his eyes shining violet. That’s new for Keith. The vulnerability he catches in those bright eyes makes Lotor cave and soften a little bit. “Please let us stay here.”

 

Lotor brushes one of his hands against Keith’s face and cups his face.

 

“I’m your only option?” Keith nods. Lotor takes his hand away and shrugs. It’s really none of his business to get involved in whatever personal problems one of his whores is in.

 

“All right, you know where the liquor is,” Lotor hands the cat back to Keith and pulls him inside.

  
  
He locks the door when Keith asks, “Do you have them too?”

 

  
“What?” Lotor blinks, watching as Keith lets Black down and bends down to untie his boots.

  
  
“Poppers,” Keith says without looking up. Lotor has to think for a while. Black rubs up against him and he has to restrain himself from pushing her away with his feet. The boy in front of him is already too protective over something so miniscule. Given at how tense he is now, Lotor imagines Keith transforming into a big cat and slicing him into pieces if he even touches Black with his foot.

 

“You’d be a monster of a cat,” he says out loud, staring at Keith.

  
  
Keith looks up at him confused, “What?” Lotor shakes his head.

  
  
“Nevermind, it’s nothing. Check the cabinet next to the bed. You’re the only man I get, so I save them just for you.”

  
  
“Lucky me,” Keith drawls and flips off his boots and starts to strip, taking his shirt off.

  
  
There are a few fresh red marks on his back that look like they’re from a belt.

 

That answers some of Lotor’s questions. Not that he cares.

  



	3. 2 hearts in 3/4 time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so fucking OVER this 9K garbage chapter. I can't stand it anymore. I hope you can't tell by my writing. The next one will be better, I swear. Also we're officially in chronological order, baby!!!!!!!! Shit's going down soon. Also, I want to clarify that Keith's bf is an original character who will remain nameless, and you get to imagine what he looks like! The only thing I've said is that he's older and bigger than Keith. I didn't like the idea of making another canon character take the role. He doesn't deserve to get a name, description or a detailed background story, you know?
> 
> TY for reading!

The rest of the night he doesn’t remember-- his plan worked out perfectly. He stirs awake late in the morning.

 

“Finally awake,” Lotor says with amusement. Keith is laying on his chest, in Lotor’s arms, with his platinum silver hair encompassing him. 

 

“Hey,” He says, not bothering to lift his head up from Lotor’s naked chest. He likes the way Lotor smells, it’s comforting.

 

“Busy week?” Lotor muses, brushing his hand through Keith’s hair. 

  
  
Keith presses into the touch, starved. “Not really,” He sighs, he can’t admit to anyone that he’s throwing the world’s biggest pity party. No one got an invitation. “Work later today.”

 

Lotor is a busybody though, he ignores Keith’s attempt to brush him off. 

  
  
“I won’t tell your man,” He assures, pressing Keith close to his chest. Lotor’s voice sounds deep, and like velvet, smooth and pleasant to hear, comforting especially to hear it rumble his chest. “I don’t involve myself in other people’s relationships.” It’s sounds so dry, enough so that Keith scoffs.

 

“Right,” He says, laced with sarcasm. This isn’t at all.” Keith wraps some of his fingers around Lotor’s silver hair, curling it.

 

Lotor pulls at Keith’s hair a little bit, “Is this why he beat you with a belt last night?” It’s a blatant dig towards his attitude. Keith’s fingers move on their own, he wraps some of Lotor’s hair around them and pulls it, harder than Lotor did to him.

 

“I thought you don’t involve yourself in other rela--” He doesn’t finish the sentence because Lotor practically throws him out of his arms and onto the edge of the bed.

 

“That is why. You should be lucky I took mercy on you last night and didn’t leave any marks.” Keith opens his mouth to try and counter with how mutually beneficial it was, before Lotor stops him with the 

 

“Also, who’s Shiro?”

  
  
His mind goes blank and he meets Lotor’s smirking face with a confused expression. 

 

“Are you deaf? Who’s Shiro?” Keith’s breath hitches.

  
  
There’s no way Lotor knows, did he snoop through his phone? Did Keith mention training him today right before or right after they were fucking, and give his name away?

  
  
That’s dangerous. He could raise absolute hell in Keith’s life if he mentioned that to his boyfriend. But Lotor gets a kick out of teasing and riling people up, he rarely goes through with actually taking action. This is a trap. He wants a reaction. He falls for it most of the time, but this time he’s not getting what he wants. Remaining calm and thinking realistically is the only thing Keith can do, because Lotor usually only barks. However, on the occasion that he does bite, he mauls. Keith’s witnessed it before, he’s still trying to figure out why he gets away with things that Lotor doesn’t tolerate from others.

 

He plays it cool and “My work husband.” rolls off his tongue while he tries to keep eye contact. He leaves the bed and starts to collect his clothes.

 

Lotor hums and smiles. “I see,” is all he responds with. 

  
  
Keith doesn’t feel as bad as he usually does. Maybe he will actually thank Lotor for letting him walk straight the next day and have no visible hickeys and bite marks. The marks from the belt are covered by the shirt he’s wearing too, and while they’re raised and will bruise, they barely ache.

 

Once again, he tells himself, everything is fine. 

 

Lotor shifts to get out of bed too, and that’s Keith’s cue to get dressed and leave. He brought a change of clothes that he laid out last night. They’re covered in black fur, it looks like Black just couldn’t help herself.

 

“Do you require a ride?” He asks Keith while he slides a belt on his pants. Keith, who’s already dressed in shorts and a crop top that says born killer, is putting on a pair of mismatched socks.

 

They’re cat socks. A Christmas present from his boyfriend, and he reflects on last night while slipping them on. He sighs loudly.

 

Lotor peeks out from his bedroom to respond to that, “What?”

 

“Oh, sorry. No, I already stayed at your place, getting a ride is kinda..” He hesitates on what to say next. It’s bad to turn down help, but overstepping boundaries and adding up more social debt could dig him a hole to rot in eventually.

 

Lotor shrugs and finishes Keith’s sentence with, “Not a problem for me. Where to?”

 

Keith thinks for a moment, he doesn’t want to go back to his place, but a ride there would mean he’d need a ride back. “Home. I want to take my car into work.” 

 

When they’re both fully dressed, they briefly argue over what to due with Black, and decide on Lotor dropping her off after he drops Keith off. He can’t take anymore of this, Lotor complains while she keeps trying to sit on his feet. Lotor wraps an arm around Keith’s waist and moves him against his chest. 

 

“You’re my favorite out of them all,” He starts poking Keith’s face, which starts to turn red, exactly the reaction he wants, and his motivation for continuing. “ _ And  _ coming to see me? You’ve earned a ride, really.” 

 

_ “A Prius? You bought... a Prius.” _

_  
_ _  
_ _ Lotor shrugs. _

 

_ “Being part of the drug trade doesn’t mean I don’t give care about the environment. Plus, what police officer will be suspicious of a man driving a Prius? Perhaps I should put a co-exist stick on the back.” _

 

That’s it. That’s how Keith can end this once and for all this morning. Nothing makes Lotor more mad than when people make fun of him for his car. It’s definitely out of the ordinary for someone in his position. He’s about to verbally end Lotor, say something nasty about his dumb fucking Prius and it’s “eco-friendliness” to knock him down a notch, really, really get under his skin, until---

 

Lotor looks down, “Cat socks, eh?  _ Cute. _ ” Keith brews at that and leaves his arms.

 

“Let’s get going,” He mutters, giving up and throwing a white flag. 

 

“Mouthy,” Lotor comments, smirking and putting on his sandals. Black tries to sit on those too.

 

* * *

 

It’s five minutes past noon, and with a cup of coffee in his hands, Keith has come to terms with his current state. So hungover, that moving too fast feeds into his nausea. It didn’t hit him until he got into his car and drove here. Lotor’s driving didn’t help either.

 

“I’m changing when Shiro’s coming in,” He sighs in defeat to himself, taking his phone out to find Shiro’s number. His original plan was Shiro starting in an hour and finishing whenever he wanted to leave.

 

It’s eating at him, the reason why he has to rearrange this.

 

“Maybe he can… close…”

* * *

_ “I want you to close with us today. That means working until midnight, if that’s okay with you. When do you want to come in?” _

_  
_ _  
_ They settle on 5PM, Keith makes a joke right before he hangs up about how Shiro can get his afternoon nap in now.

 

Keith’s there in his usual spot, behind the counter, when Shiro enters the parlor. He’s sporting some darker under circles and his hair is tied into a small messy bun on the top of his head. He resembles a carrot. That may be why the person he’s talking to is grinning a little and doesn’t look like he’s taking Keith seriously. Pidge is next to him, sketching on a piece of paper with markers and isn’t paying attention whatsoever. Finally, Keith throws up his hands and sighs with a loud  _ fine _ , and makes an appointment for the kid. He leaves after that and almost bumps into Shiro on his way out.

  
  
Keith looks like he’s brewing over the whole thing, until he notices Shiro and lightens up his attitude. “Didn’t think you’d come back,” He greets a little less enthusiastically than yesterday, waving a tad bit. He’s probably trying to recover from that interaction.

  
  
“Yeah?” Shiro responds.

  
  
“Escape now while you can, Shiro.” Pidge adds, while Keith eagerly motions him to come up to the front.

  
  
“People are so entitled,” Keith retorts to both of them. “We don’t have room for walk-ins today, and he seriously just told me that we don’t look busy right now. Sorry-- we’re on break. And what was his problem? “I’m not gay, I only want one earring.””

  
  
“I mean, he’s right, more than one? He’ll be gay,” She says sarcastically. “And he probably didn’t take you seriously with that hair of yours,” Her honesty is brutal. “You got owned by a guy wearing a high school letterman jacket.”

 

She hits the nail on the head, Shiro silently agrees, and Keith gives her a hard stare, brewing. Either he’s putting Pidge on his hit list, or a lightbulb turns on in his head at the revelation that he did get owned by a kid wearing a high school letterman jacket. Who thinks two earrings makes someone gay. It probably was the carrot styled hair that did him in.

  
  
“You know what, I gave him to Hunk, but I’m going to reschedule,” He says while undoing his hair and brushing it with his fingers. “Have fun with letterman jacket on Friday. Maybe I’ll accidentally write down that he wants both of them pierced.”

 

Shiro is starting to understand why Kolivan was desperate to hire someone for this job.

 

His vengeful mood softens up when he meets Shiro’s eyes. 

  
  
“Sorry about that,” He puts his hair into a short ponytail. He looks a lot less ridiculous now. “Pidge, defend the front while I test Shiro.”

  
  
“On it,” She thumbs up.

 

Keith seems to cheer up right away and immediately starts quizzing Shiro on what he knows about phone calls, scheduling, keeping up with emails and payments. Every time he tries to spare Keith of explaining something that he already knows, Keith’s too oblivious to pick up the dropped hints and goes into full detail like this is Shiro’s first job. Pidge smiles while drawing and Shiro is too nice to interrupt him, but it  _ is  _ endearing how much passion he has for the parlor. Keith also came up with a hand drawn piercing cheat sheet for him, and calculated how much he’d make in a month if he works full-time. He’ll also get 5% of any of the tips that Keith, Hunk or Pidge get. 

 

“Isn’t that a bit much? I don’t do a lot.” Keith shakes his head at Shiro’s question.

 

“It’s only fair,” He justifies. “We need you to stay, so I don’t work the front desk and deal with people like letterman jacket gay boy. You deserve it.”

 

The pay cut reflects the cut of responsibilities. He has to tweak his current lifestyle a little, but nothing major has to change. But it’s worth it, he won’t roll into an emergency situation here. No, my kids and I need shelter from our husband-- no, we suspect that the foster parents are abusing their foster kids-- what’s the worst that could happen at a tattoo parlor? Someone passing out while getting something done?

 

Keith tells him that the worst thing is a client not signing a waiver before an appointment. It’s only happened a few times, and nothing’s happened, thankfully. But Kolivan will pace up and down the hallway because of his nerves, and that’s a constant reminder of your sin.

 

The tutorial ends quickly enough that Keith’s break isn’t over yet, and Pidge’s hasn’t come in. There’s enough time to dilly dally around, so they start chit-chatting about random things relating to the parlor. They used to use a computer to schedule appointments, but it always broke when Hunk touched it. Now they use paper. Keith gets hit on a lot after 9PM by very questionable people. Of course they aren’t a cash only place like other parlors, they aren’t animals. It gets a little quiet after that, Keith joins her in sketching, until Pidge starts back up.

 

“How’s he doing?” She asks, coloring in another robot sketch. 

  
  
Keith looks at her confused, stopping his own pencil sketch. “Who?”, he asks, before realizing what Pidge is about to start, and his stomach drops. He makes a mental note to move Pidge up even further on his hit list.

 

“You know. The  _ boyfriend _ .”

  
  
Shiro, who was mindlessly scrolling through facebook, perks up at that. To Keith, it feels like he got busted doing something bad. Or at least, that’s what his face says. They don’t talk about him here, at all. He’s an unperson. This is on purpose.  _ The  _ boyfriend. Notoriety. Keith tries to keep the straightest face he can. He looks over at Pidge and makes a fist with one of his hands.

 

_ I am going to end your shit within the next five hours left of your shift. _

 

She sticks her tongue out as a response.

 

If Shiro notices their nonverbal bicker, he ignores it. “What’s he like?” 

 

It’s such an innocent and simple question and Keith’s reeling because it’s already something he has to lie about. His stuttering mind can’t decide on how he can twist reality to something that has a chance of approval. His boyfriend has demons, their relationship hurts Keith sometimes, and his job is illegal. Things that Keith does not and can not talk about, like how he came home last night and tried to hit him for no reason. 

 

“He’s cool,” Keith decides on, telling a half-truth. Because he is, when they’re not fighting.

 

“How long have you been together?”

 

He hasn’t been asked these sort of questions in so long, because it’s been so well known and he barely puts his wall downs anymore for people. It’s jump starting his heart over and over again.

  
  
Keith looks at the floor, “A while. We live together.” 

  
  
“Does he work at a place like this too?” Oh goddamnit.

  
  
“No he’s a...” His breath hitches. Shiro’s raises an eyebrow while Keith figures out a lie to say. A good lie. “Private… commissioner.”

 

He’s looking at Keith with an amused smile. “Oh..?” Shiro hums.

 

Shiro’s smile could mean lots of things, and Keith can’t figure it out while he’s thinking of what else to say. 

 

“Works--- independently.” It almost comes out as a gasp. Shiro seems satisfied by that answer, and comments, “That’s cool”, and doesn’t press any further. He feels perspiration on his lower back, despite how they keep the parlor chilling. Keith presses a hand to a face and it feels warm. He’s probably red in the face.

 

For once, Keith wants a friendship that isn’t influenced by his relationship. Pidge didn’t start things before she found out. He laments about how it ruins his other relationships. They’re on day three of knowing each other, it feels more though. Longer than just half a week. That’s why he’s been trying to play it safe. That’s why he fled immediately to Lotor’s place last night instead of fighting back. A part of him knows it’s inevitable. But he still wants to try.

 

He wants to be angry when Pidge stirs the post like this. But Keith can’t. He can’t hide all of the marks and bruises from the aftermaths of brawls he gets into. She really didn’t take it well and tried to confront him about it. And failed. Hunk had to mediate and step in when she started to cry. 

 

Lance yelled and fought him, Kolivan practically begged, Hunk patched him up and offered him any help that he needed. He knows the pained and desperate look he gets from people who care about him. Figured out how to push it out of his mind. But no one has ever cried in front of him, for him. It made him feel something almost indescribable, instead of running he wanted to console her. Lie and say that he’ll change. But it was so overwhelming that he left early and relied on Hunk, because he didn’t know how to give her some sort of solace. He won’t leave him. It’s not an option at this point.

 

Then she stopped trying to change him, like everyone else does.

 

A customer comes in asking about availability for a tattoo, and Shiro takes it without asking for permission. He looks good up at the counter. Confident, with a nice smile. A good fit to the place. When Shiro’s focused on interacting with the customer, Keith can’t stop himself from saying “Hey Pidge, let me help you with that coloring bit.” 

 

She takes her hands off of it with complete trust. And he takes a big sharpie marker and crosses it out to ruin it, smiling with content while she gapes at him.

 

Then he helps Shiro find the schedule book that they use.

 

* * *

 

The place begins hopping following that. They’re all nearly booked for the whole day, besides each person getting an hour break and ten minute free slots between each appointment. 

 

Hunk and Pidge come out to help with piercing information. Kolivan teaches him how to estimate costs of tattoo inquiries, and writes down what everyone charges for an hour. (Surprisingly, Hunk charges the most.) Everyone else he picked up quickly. Shiro likes it when things are busy-- not in a panicked way. Before he knows it, it’s already 8PM, and Keith’s standing next to him behind the front desk since he has a free block for a meal.

 

“I have nothing to do for the next half hour, Shiro.” He puts his hands on his hips confidently. “Do you know what that means?”

  
  
Shiro flashes him a smile. “Pidge is going to do a speedrun tattoo on you next?” He asks amused.

  
  
Keith shakes his head. “Maybe another time.” And Shiro thinks that’s sincere. “I heard the rumors that you’re an expert by now. I think it might be because of your mentor, who’s really good at mentoring.”

  
  
“He is a pretty good mentor.” Shiro agrees. 

  
  
Keith leans over the counter and stretches, exposing more of his abdomen than his crop top already did. “Only four hours left,” He yawns, still sporting the dark under circles. “Maybe if you’re lucky, someone will pick a fight with us tonight.”

  
  
“My mentor said something about that.” Shiro says very seriously. “I told him I’d help him out.” 

 

That seems to touch Keith, who inches closer to Shiro with a sweet smile.

  
  
“Don’t worry, Shiro, your mentor  _ got shooters _ ,” He beams.

  
  
“Wait, what?” Shiro drops the act and looks at Keith in confusion. “Got shooters?” He has to have heard that incorrectly.

 

“Yeah, you know,” Keith makes a gun with his hand and aims it at Shiro. “Got shooters.”

 

  
The only thing Shiro can think of for that meaning, is that Keith has physical weapons to fight people off. 

 

“You have a gun?”

  
  
“What--” Keith says, “No! Kolivan does-- you don’t know what got shooter means?”

 

_ Wait. Kolivan has a fucking gun? _

 

Shiro finds him a little more intimidating now, because Kolivan does look like he has a gun.

  
  
“‘Fraid not.” Shiro frowns.

 

It’s hitting him now, all at once. He’s the oldest person here, after Kolivan. It’s deja vu. Lance made fun of him for not understanding Snapchat and the phrase, “bye Felicia” when they still worked together. Matt didn’t stop laughing about it for the rest of the day. It was one of the worse days of his entire life, and he was a case manager for years. Keith keeps his hand gun pointed at Shiro, keeping his hostage. He’s tempted to put his hands up and beg to not be shot.

 

“The guy with the big beard who wanted that panther tattoo taught me it.” He’s wearing a cocky smile. “It means---.” Keith suddenly stops talking, but keeps the hand gun pointed. 

 

A few seconds later he looks back up at Shiro with blush highlighting his cheeks, and a small frown.

 

“I don’t remember got shooters, Shiro.” He sighs, and his demeanor shifted from confidently holding an old-timer hostage to turning red in front of a co-worker.

  
  
“Maybe my old-timer dementia is rubbing off on you,” Shiro laughs.

 

In an effort to recover smoothly, Keith whips his phone out to look it up. Because, as he claims, it’s on the tip of his tongue. 

  
  
“Do you like this?” He asks earnestly while waiting for urban dictionary to load on his phone.   
  


That’s a rather bold question to ask on the spot. He gets a little red in the face. “Being with you?” He tries to specify.

  
  
“Kinda,” Keith smiles a little and Shiro sees his cheeks turn a little red. “I mean working here.”  

 

“I do, it’s not that hard-- and you’re all really nice, especially you.” Shiro compliments.

  
  
Keith looks up with a look that could kill.

 

“I’m actually really mean. Wait until you officially start,” He says dryly.

 

Shiro ruffles his hair and Keith breaks his serious face.

 

“True,” Shiro agrees, “After tomorrow I won’t be able to stand you. Wait, you’re on break, shouldn’t you go eat something?”

  
  
Keith shrugs, still looking at his phone screen. “My hands don’t shake when I’m hungry.”

 

Shiro feels his inner grandma come out. “Keith, you need three square meals a day.” 

  
  
“Since you won’t be able to stand me tomorrow,” Shiro frowns at being brushed off. “What about a compromise, wanna get bubble tea with Hunk and I? We close today.”

  
  
He doesn’t press into it any further and agrees on it. Keith’s eyes light up, because ah, of course he remembers the meaning now. After all, he’s still pretty young, and cool.

 

Unfortunately, to everyone’s disappointment, no fights happen that night. 

* * *

 

“Good job today, Buddy,” Hunk cheers. “You stayed for seven hours! That’s the record for training, besides Keith who has always lives here.”

  
  
“A silver medal is fine.” Shiro jokes.

 

Keith comes down the hall with a mop, “Floor’s mopped and the lights are turned off.”

 

Hunk nods. “Shiro and I finished the drawer. Let’s skedaddle then.” 

  
  
Keith leans against the mop and laments, “I could use a drink before going home tonight.” Hunk flashes a concerned look, but Shiro laughs lightheartedly.

  
  
“You’re talking like we’re going to go drinking somewhere.” He says.

 

Keith grimaces and starts walking towards the breakroom to put the mop away.

  
  
“Alcohol sounds awful right now,” He calls out. “Tea that hurts my teeth sounds better.”

  
  
“A bubble tea to drown out your sorrows.” Hunk adds.   
  


There are stairs inside the building that lead them down to the bubble tea place on the first floor. It’s a large and bright space with chairs and tables, as well as some scattered couches that are all a muted blue. Everyone in there besides them is a college student. Keith and Hunk fit into the picture a bit more than Shiro does. 

 

“Shiro,” Keith says while in line, “Let me pay for you?”

  
  
Shiro shakes his head to turn him down politely. “Keith, you don’t have to, I have money.” But he’s not getting his way, because out of the three of them, Shiro is last in line. Keith is first.

 

_ And he knows that Shiro likes the melon ones. _

 

“I want to treat you for staying seven hours and working the whole time with us. My treat, as your mentor.”

  
  
Hunk turns towards Shiro and laughs, “Sorry Pal, ol’ mentor here has a big stubborn streak.”

 

“Next time, then.”

 

They find a 3 person couch that has a coffee table in front of it and plomp themselves down on it, with Keith in the middle.

 

“I tattooed a black cat on a girl today,” Hunk says with a smile. “It ended up looking a lot like yours.” Shiro turns his attention to Keith.

 

“You have a cat?” Shiro asks excitedly. Keith nods with a big smile.

 

“Keith’s cat is sooo cute,” Hunk says. “Sometimes he’ll bring her to work.”   


  
“It’s important for her to socialize,” Keith remarks matter-of-factly and continuing his quick consumption of the boba in his tea. He’s barely touched the tea, and he asked for extra boba too. Shiro already finished his.

  
Shiro’s visited Keith’s workroom today briefly, and he saw a cute painting of a black cat with bright green eyes.

 

“Is that the cat painting on your wall?” 

  
  
“It is, I got her in college. Lance and I were her dads.” That takes Shiro by surprise, Keith makes it seem like he can’t stand sharing the same room as Lance. He even quizzed Shiro on what to do if Lance shows up.

 

Act like a bouncer. If he’s not buying anything, kick him out.

  
  
“Lance? You two were roommates?” Keith nods.

 

“For freshmen year and then half of sophomore year,” He says while chewing on boba.

  
  
Sharing an office room with Lance was sometimes brutal. A tiny dorm room sounds like a bad dream. “I can’t imagine living with him.”

  
  
“He was a good roommate,” He responds casually. It sounds more delicate to Shiro and Hunk than Keith thinks it does.

  
  
Hunk leans to the left to start to lightly elbow Keith. “Lance told me that you guys used to bother the hell out of your suitemate.” Keith’s face twists into protest and he puts his tea down, swallowing before starting.

  
  
“He bothered the hell out of us,” He huffs with irritation making his eyebrows slightly furrow. “Always coming over unannounced over to complain about whatever we were doing.”   
  


But Shiro catches a small smile and some red in his cheeks after he says that.

 

“Sounds like you had a lot of fun,” He remarks.

  
  
“I.. Really did,” Keith sighs a little after, feeling something heavy on his chest. “I was really happy.” 

 

“Haha, I’ll tell Lance that.” Hunk starts elbowing him again in good gesture. 

 

“He’ll talk about it for weeks, maybe even come in to gloat about it,” Shiro adds bemusedly.

  
  
“Don’t you dare, you two!” Keith scolds, pushing Hunk away. 

 

“How’s Black doing though?” Hunk asks. “You haven’t brought her to work for a while.”

 

Keith smiles contently. In pure bliss he says, “She’s  _ great,” _ and gets his phone out to show his home screen. She’s on top of a fridge, staring down and looking directly at the camera. Shiro can’t keep his eyes off t.

 

“I took this this weekend,” He says cheerfully. “She likes to watch me cook.”

  
  
Shiro inches closer to Keith until their thighs touch. “She’s so cute. Do you have more pictures of her? I love cats.”

  
“Do you have one?” Keith asks.

 

“I wish! I was always too busy with my old job.” From studying the employment schedule, Shiro now knows that Keith works an insane amount of hours, whole days for six out of seven, and then a half day on Thursdays. Black shouldn’t be too lonely though, if his boyfriend and him live together.

 

Name-wise though, Black sounds so boring and unoriginal. He expected something more artistic and goth, like Dracula.

  
“So, why Black?”

  
  
“I was saying names,” Keith explains. “And she seemed to like that name the most.” 

 

“You’re a free range dad, letting the kids name themselves.”

  
  
“Here she is,” Keith gives the phone to Shiro and leans on his shoulder. “Scroll through if you want, they’re all of her.” 

  
  
And Keith isn’t joking. They’re all of Black.

 

Black napping on the floor, Black posing on the floor, Black napping on the bed, Black in a dry bathtub, Black looking straight at the camera, Black in a ladybug costume, Black in a bikini. Black as a kitten. He’s gushing at all of them while Keith beams like a proud father. 

 

He comes across an old picture of Keith and Lance holding her up, probably in the dorms, that Shiro flips to. She’s so small that Lance is holding her in one hand. He’s surprised by how young and lanky both Keith and Lance look. They look so close. Lance is smiling ear to ear and Keith’s peace signing the camera while laughing.

 

He’s right, Shiro confirms. It looks like he was really happy, and really close to Lance. Something big must have happened, because Keith seems like he can’t stand him whatsoever.

 

“Our suitemate took that,” Keith interjects, smiling softly. “It was the first time he didn’t bring up that she was against the rules.”

  
  
“You and Lance snuck a cat in?” He can’t imagine them working together like that.

  
  
“Of course,” He says like it was obligatory. “She was a gift.”

  
  
“I’m jealous, my RA was really strict, and at the fraternity I lived at, we had a no pets rule.”

  
  
Keith and Hunk look at him in surprise, and Keith removes himself from Shiro’s shoulder. They start to scoot away from Shiro in a dramatic fashion.

 

“Hunk, I think we got a mole,” Keith says urgently to him. 

 

Hunk quickly adds, “A frat boy snuck in? To our parlor?”

  
  
Shiro smiles. “By the end of the week, you’ll all be wearing bright colored shorts.”   
  


* * *

 

It’s almost 2AM when they finish their drinks, Hunk and Keith are reminded by how late it is by Shiro’s constant yawning. It’s hard to keep up with people in their early twenties. He began to realize that after Lance joined his old workplace.

 

He’s waiting for an elderly joke when Keith grins at him, and instead, Keith adjusts himself so Shiro can lean his head against his shoulder. It’s so kind and thoughtful, until he says something about Shiro missing his bed time. 

 

They peel themselves off of the couch eventually and they all stretch. Shiro raises his arms up, Hunk goes side to side, and Keith arches his back. They breathe out a sigh in unison before throwing their empty cups away and heading to the parking lot.

 

“The stresses of work,” Hunk declares.

 

It’s been so sweltering hot out, that even in the dead hours of the night, the day’s humidity lingers and makes everything feel sticky. Keith leaves first, thanking Shiro for his hard work, and assuring him that his first actual work day will be smooth. Something seems off from his usual mood, he fidgets with his hands the whole time saying goodbye. Hunk pats his back and tells him to call him if he needs anything. 

 

They’ve only known each other since Sunday, Shiro knows it’s a little inappropriate to ask if he needs anything. Hunk sniffs it out of him after Keith waves goodbye and drives out.

 

“Keith is a really good guy, I don’t think he gives himself enough credit. You two act like you’ve known each other much longer than three days.”

  
  
“He’s easy to talk to,” Shiro says. 

 

Hunk laughs a little. “He’s actually all claws at first to most people, you’re the exception. He’s a bit of a workaholic.”

 

“I saw, he doesn’t have any days off.”

  
  
“That’s how it’s always been,” Hunk says. It’s bothering him a tad bit, he can’t seem to shake how sad and tired Keith looked when he was talking about Lance. Maybe he should ask Lance about it.

 

“I gotta hand it to you, you’re a good leader. With you and Keith there, everything ran pretty smoothly. You’re opening with Keith tomorrow?”

 

“He’s going to show me how to open,” Shiro yawns.

 

“It’ll be a cake walk, I come in a little later.” Hunk waves and goes in the opposite direction towards his car. “See you tomorrow!”

 

“Bye, Hunk,” Shiro waves back. “And good job today.”

 

* * *

 

The whole day Keith played mental gymnastics about what to do when he got home, until a text message at the time his shift ended convinced him that it was safe to return home.

 

An apology message. It’s a relief. 

 

The ride home is about thirty minutes, give or take. By 3AM, he’s sliding his shoes off and heading into the kitchen of his apartment.

 

He hears a “Hey baby, you’re home later than usual.” from the living room, then his boyfriend meets him and leans against the wall with an amused smile.

  
  
Keith’s been trying to reach for a glass cup and it’s on the tip of his fingers-- it’s been years and he still doesn’t understand why the cups have to go on the highest shelf. After he washes and dries them he’ll put them on the lowest shelf, and within a day they’re suddenly on the highest one. When he asks his boyfriend why he does it, he points at Black and tells him to ask her.

 

“Got bubble tea with Hunk, he wanted to talk about his scheduling for tomorrow.” A white lie that won’t hurt anybody. 

  
  
His boyfriend peers over his shoulder. “When did you get such a sweet tooth?” He reaches up to get the cup with ease and hands it to Keith before he tries to climb the counter. His arms find themselves around Keith’s waist.

  
  
Keith sighs, sometimes when he sleeps he has nightmares that the sweets flood the shop and drown them all in sugar.

 

“Probably when Hunk started to force it upon Kolivan and I.” Keith moves to the sink to fill the cup, dragging him along. You should see our fridge at work!”

 

“You should bring some home sometime,” He mumbles into his hair. “I remember the sugar cookies you got, they were so good.”

  
  
Keith flips around and looks up to meet his eyes, “Only if you’re good!” He quips. 

 

His boyfriend puts him in a headlock and gives him a noogie.

 

“Stop or I’m going to spill my water!” Keith says while trying to struggle out.

 

The noogie gets harder, “When am I not the best, Kitten?” He jokes, pressing a kiss to Keith’s forehead.

  
  
“Meow,” Keith replies dryly, half of the water out of the cup and on his shirt. Black meows from across the room. His boyfriend cracks up and releases him. 

 

“My life is just surrounded by cats now.”

  
  
“Is that a bad thing?”

  
  
“‘’Course not.”

  
  
Also,” His boyfriend’s croaks, and shifts his feet. “About that text.”   
  


Keith gets quiet. The bruises that he received are just for being around when he shouldn’t have been. The one-sidedness of it all left him at a loss of words, and a loss at thinking properly. It was out of the blue. He’s been hit with a belt before, more than a belt-- it has always happened during a fight though. This time, he didn’t do anything, his boyfriend didn’t try to pick a fight with him. He just came home.

 

It’s abnormal for them. And he’s been mulling over his unease towards this shift in their power balance since it happened.

  
  
“I feel bad for leaving,” Keith admits. 

  
  
“You shouldn’t,” He says promptly. “I’ve been a dick lately. I fought with my mom, and took it out on you when you got home.”

 

Oh, that makes sense. His family put him in the foster care system after his dad died and his mom couldn’t take care of him. She’s a drug addict. She doesn’t make him feel wanted. Keith understands not being wanted. They have that both in common, the intense desire to be wanted by someone. 

 

It’s probably why they’re still together at this point.

  
  
“I get it. It was an in-the-moment kind of thing,” Keith reassures, patting his back. “We’ve been good besides that.”

 

“We have been.” He agrees, “And I just, don’t wanna lose you.” 

 

“I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

 

And he means it.

 

“...Unless you continue to put the cups on the top shelf,” Keith side-eyes with a smirk.

  
  
“Hey, that’s something that you and Black gotta work out. Also-- do you need to eat?”

  
  
“I should eat, probably.” His appetite stiffens when he’s stressed. He lost almost twelve pounds after flunking out of school because transitioning was rough, and over the years he’s lost a few more. But his bones don’t stick out or anything, it doesn’t bother him since he has some muscle too.

 

“I’ll make spaghetti. Black’s favorite.”

 

It’s a joke now, but when Black chowed down on spaghetti with no inhibitions a year ago, Keith started crying horribly. Seeing Keith crying so hard made his boyfriend grab both of them and zoom to the emergency vet nearby. After $275, the vet laughed and informed them that no, spaghetti isn’t toxic to cats.    


 

  
“You don’t have to stay up for me.” Keith says on autopilot. But his partner’s in a good mood. This is who he loves, and he needs more.   


 

  
His boyfriend offers a soft smile and pulls him into his arms again. The hug is tighter than the one before, a desperate sort of tight.

 

“I want to,  _ I’ve missed you _ .” He says. Keith’s starved for feeling wanted. “We can hang out with Black.”

  
  
They really have been doing well lately, last night’s fight was a fluke.

  
  


* * *

 

It’s been about a week since Shiro joined, and by now he’s well-adjusted to his new life. There's only one hurdle right now, what the social policy is with his prosthetic arm.

 

As a social worker, it wasn’t very acceptable to show it to clients. Being his dominant hand, he had to train himself to hand things to people with his left hand, take things with his left hand, shake with his left hand, almost everything besides writing. 

 

Pidge already knows and doesn’t say anything. Shiro thinks that, realistically, this place edits skin and changes body parts, so it shouldn’t be an issue, HR won’t have to get involved, whoever is their HR. (Probably Hunk.)

 

It isn’t until a week later, while he keeps thinking about it, that Keith spots it while they’re in the magic breakroom munching on Hunk’s chocolate cookies. Cookie still in his mouth, he calls it a work of art and can’t keep his wide eyes off of it.

  
  
“.. You think?” 

 

Keith nods wordlessly, still chewing on his cookie. 

 

“Most people I knew got uncomfortable, I had to hide it at my old job as a case manager.”

  
  
Keith makes a face at that after finishing his cookie. “I’m sure kids would love it.” 

 

“They told me it was mostly  _ for _ the kids,” And Shiro can’t help the peevish tone of voice.

 

Keith broods over that for a while, before he opens his mouth again.   
  


 

“Foster kids wouldn’t see you as some sort of freak or be scared,” He states definitely.

 

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” He doesn’t prod about why Keith thinks that way.

  
  
“You lost your arm, but you’re successful.” Shiro hadn’t ever thought of it that way. “Foster kids need that, someone who went something bad but recovered, and now they’re doing really well. I can’t believe they just told you to hide it away for years.”

 

I needed that, Keith’s so tempted to add, I needed that. The social workers assigned to him while he was in the system had no intuition on the situation in his foster family, and more or less treated him like a 9 to 5. Keith’s never had a good image of social workers because of his experience. They were never genuine to him. But the more he works with Shiro, who always comes in a little early and stays a little late and has incredible social skills, the more his perception of social workers changes little by little.

  
  
“I wish my supervisors felt that way.” Cuts into Keith more than he admits, it feels personal to him, because the supervisor made it worse. His care manager didn’t know what to do, and their supervisor took over. Then sat the three of them down together and told them that Keith wanted to go somewhere else. And asked him to explain why. So they could talk about it. It was such a shock that he barely had any color in his face and couldn’t talk, yet they couldn’t pick up on it, couldn’t save--

 

“You want to touch it that badly?” Snaps him back to now, and Keith looks down to see that he’s gripping the metal arm, specifically the forearm, hard. With two hands. As leverage. And he looks up at Shiro, and can’t figure out how to tell him that he needs to keep gripping it, or else.

 

Or else.

 

“It’s okay, you can,” He looks amused. “I touched your tattoos all over by now. I don’t care.”  

  
  
Keith looks back down at it in his arms. “Does it hurt when I squeezed it?”

  
  
“No, I feel some pressure, it’s the latest model. I can feel things with it now, but it’s dulled.”

  
  
“That’s amazing,” He presses on it some more.

  
  
“Right? With my first one, I had to adjust the fingers all the time to type, or grip things.”

 

It clicks then, to Keith. Shiro’s hesitancy, the long sleeves.

  
  
“You can show it around here,” Keith looks concerned. “You know that, right? We aren’t like that.”

 

“I know you aren’t. It’s hard to leave the mindset that I need to hide it for work, I had that job since I finished college.”

  
  
That feeds into Keith’s already negative opinion of social workers. “No one around here should have a problem about your prosthetic.” He huffs. “None of us do, and if any people who come in here do, we’ll ban them.”   
  


“Banning?” Shiro smiles. “That’s not necessary, I’m not sensitive about it anymore.” 

“If anything goes beyond college boys challenging you to arm wrestling or asking if it vibrates, they’re out.” Keith looks so serious that Shiro laughs a little.

  
  
“I’ll win the matches,” He assures. “And no, it doesn’t.”

  
  
Keith looks pleased with that response. “You have to, to defend the parlor’s honor. Oh, wait.” He pauses.

 

“You need anything?” Shiro asks.

 

“I have something to show you.  _ Equivalent exchange _ , I have a body mod too. It’s not like a prosthetic though.” He frowns a little after saying that, not meaning to compare the two. “I didn’t need it, and it actually does freak some clients out.”

  
  
Shiro moves a little closer to Keith, eyeing him up and down. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, besides the three tattoo sleeves and piercings. “.... What is it?”

  
  
Shiro’s not sure what to expect, and is taken aback when Keith opens his mouth.

 

And becomes puzzled when Keith sticks his tongues out.

 

Two tongues.

 

Two. Tongues?

 

“Yep. Two tongues. It’s called a split tongue. I can do tricks with it.”

  
  
He crosses the sides, then makes a circle with them.

 

It’s the strangest thing Shiro has ever seen. Like something out of Alien. But a little endearing, since Keith looks very excited about showing it to him. 

 

“Why?” He manages to sputter out. Shiro has learned to appreciate and understand most piercings and tattoos, even septum piercings and stretched ears. This, he one hundred percent cannot wrap his mind around. Because, it’s a tongue. You eat with them, how can you eat with two tongues? How do you kiss with two tongues? Why? Why cut it in half? He’s bitten his tongue before and it’s painful.

 

“Before Hunk joined, we had a guest piercer and body mod person come in for a few days. He wanted to try it, so we locked ourselves in my workroom and he did it.”

  
  
And that confirms to Shiro that yes, Keith does impulsive, last minute things all the time. And from hearing him talk about how they locked themselves in, it means that Kolivan has always disapproved of it.

 

“Didn’t it hurt?” 

  
  
“I had numbing cream, not too badly. This guy had two horn implants and sharpened ears, he was pretty experienced. I’d wanted one for a long time, I used to have a tongue piercing.”

 

He’s able to imagine Keith with horns and pointed ears, and it sets him on edge at how easy it is.

  
  
“Slippery slope,” Shiro half teases.

  
  
“Correct,” He nods, running with the joke. “Eventually I’ll get it split into four pieces. Four tongues. Think of what I can do with four tongues!”

  
  
“Dress up as a lizard for Halloween?” Shiro jokes.

  
  
“Scare away customers I don’t like.” He reveals. “Hiss a little too, so they don’t come back.”

 

“I can’t let you do that, we’d lose business!” He laughs.

 

* * *

 

A few nights later, a grimy dude in a wifebeater comes into the parlor late at night, with a mission to complete. 

 

“C’mon baby,” He slurs. “You guys close in an hour. I work in the area, seen you a few times in the parking lot.” Keith physically recoils.

  
  
“Stalkers aren’t welcomed here, buy something or leave,” He says dismissively, then adding a beat later, “Please.” But then the guy smiles more and he immediately regrets saying please. Fuck the customer is always right, he’s only out here because Shiro’s eating cookies in the breakroom. 

  
  
“Who can resist wanting to get to know you more, babe?” That makes goosebumps cover his arms like a rash. He only hears that tone when he’s in trouble with something.

  
  
“Plenty of people, I have a boyfriend,” Keith grits out, trying to shoo away any anxieties he has. “Find someone else.” 

  
  
“He’s not here though, right?” The dunkard is closing in on Keith and he can smell the alcohol in his breath.

 

Keith knows these kind of people, the ones who only back off if the other person can physically prove that someone else “has” them. He’s also aware that Hunk left an hour earlier, and Pidge is half of this guy. And he can’t go get Shiro, because the front desk is the only barrier from this asshole’s hands and mouth.

 

He’s about to threaten to call the police, lady luck’s on his side though when he hears the door of the breakroom open.

 

“Actually, he, he is,” Keith exclaims loudly. “He’s on his way over here, my boyfriend, who works at the front desk,” He says louder to try and draw Shiro’s attention.

  
  
“You sure about that, sweetie?”

  
  
“He’s sure,” Shiro calls out when he reaches the front. Keith sighs in relief. “Sir, solicitors aren’t allowed." He says it in a voice that Keith hones in on, for a reason he can't name. "I have to ask for you to leave.  _ Immediately."  _ It's Shiro's first time kicking someone out of the parlor, a rite of passage. 

 

And this guy does the same exact thing that other guys do. After he sees Shiro, he puts his tail in between his legs and books it on out of there. Not before getting the last word in, that Keith’s a dumb slut, and he was all over him before Shiro came into the scene.

 

“He’s right,” Keith remarks dryly, after the guy leaves. “The alcohol I smelt on his breath and his BO? Right up my alley.”

  
  
“Your poor boyfriend,” Shiro jokes, approaching Keith at the counter. That sends a slight shiver up his spine, thinking about his boyfriend and the tone of voice that the drunkard had. 

 

“I can’t hit them unless it’s in self-defense,” Keith says to recover. “Maybe I’ll ask Kolivan to reconsider.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Shiro says confidently. “As your work husband, it’s my duty to protect you,”   


 

Keith laughs a little, starting to relax. “Thanks Shiro, that means a lot.

 

“I should start counting the drawer.” Shiro counting the drawer is one of the best things about him joining. Somehow, every time, he never goes over or under. It’s one of the seven wonders of the world, forget the Great Wall or pyramids. Even Kolivan messes it up sometimes.

 

“For helping me, do you want to go get bubble tea after work?” Keith suggests. It’s becoming a regular thing for them, since Shiro’s training. “I’ll pay.”

  
  
“You don’t have to pay,” Shiro reassures. “You paid last time.”

 

Keith won’t ever admit it, but he feels good whenever he spends his money on Shiro.

  
  
“I want to, I was late today and you didn’t give me crap for it.”

 

“Patience is important in a marriage,” Shiro says while counting up the bills. Keith notices that whenever Shiro’s concentrating on a task, especially counting the drawer, he sticks his tongue out a little bit and slightly taps one of his feet. Maybe everyone else should try it so they all become experts at the drawer.

  
Shiro continues. “I remember on my training day, you and Pidge mentioned that you got hit on a lot. I kinda thought that you were exaggerating.” He admits. Keith is clearly above average, his aesthetic attracts lots of people. Shiro didn’t expect it to happen a few days a week. 

  
  
But Keith only notices the aggressive types, everyone else’s flirting goes over his head every time. He now depends on Shiro to tell him what it means when someone puts their number on the receipts. Shiro also gets hit on occasionally, but mostly by women. It surprised him the first time it happened, since most of the clients are undergraduates and he’s almost 30.

 

“It doesn’t happen often,” Fake news, Shiro thinks to himself.. “You’re popular, a person I pierced asked me if you had a girlfriend.”

  
  
Shiro stops for a moment. “The one who got the lip stud?”

  
  
“I told her that it wouldn’t work out.” Shiro can imagine the blunt way that Keith broke the news to her, the awkwardness that ensued that he didn’t pick up on. That’s probably why she barely looked at either of them in the eyes when she paid Shiro and Keith gave her instructions.

  
  
“Territorial, huh?” He teases with a warm voice.

 

“Pew pew,” Shiro hears him mutter behind him. The got shooters joke stuck as an inside joke between them. Unfortunate, to everyone else. Pidge gags when she hears it.

 

“Blam, blam, blam.” Shiro says back.

* * *

 

The last person he wants to see walk into the parlor, walks into the parlor, and neither Shiro nor Hunk are there to mediate as Lance approaches where Keith’s standing.

 

They haven’t seen each other since Shiro started a month ago. His luck of never seeing Lance had to run out eventually.

 

“How’ve you been, Bud? You guys seriously blast the a/c in here,” Lance remarks, airing out his shirt and sighing in relief from the heat.

  
  
“Been good,” Keith says automatically, fidgeting with his fingers.

  
  
“Glad to hear that, things going well with,”

  
  
Keith inhales sharply. As expected, Lance won’t let sleeping dogs lie. 

 

“Shiro?”

  
  
“ _ Shiro? _ ” He says in disbelief, and Lance raises an eyebrow at that. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” It catched him off-guard. “I saw him recently, he looks good.”

 

“He’s really good.” Keith nods in agreement. “Doesn’t yell at me when I’m late, like Kolivan does.”

  
  
“I miss him at work,” Lance starts sniffing like he’s close to crying. “It’s like you stole him from me.”

  
  
The corners of Keith’s lips tug up. “I’m the other woman.”

  
  
“Keith the homewrecker,” Lance jokes. “I’m glad he’s doing well, during his last few weeks as a case manager, he looked pretty rough.”

  
  
“A case manager in foster care will do that. Probably,” Keith says. Shiro has hinted about how draining his past job was, and Keith doesn’t bother him to talk about it more. Everyone has things they don’t want to talk about, and he isn’t dumb. There’s a reason Shiro has a head of gray hair. 

 

“Maybe he’ll tell you about it sometime,” Lance brushes it off. Keith didn’t notice it when he walked in, but Lance looks... nervous. A sort of nervous he hasn’t seen in a long time. It sets off an alarm, that Lance is about to say or try to do something that’ll piss him off and wreck their relationship even further. “I have some news for you.”

 

“What?” 

 

“Soccer Mom is coming back in the fall.”

  
  
“Oh--” Of all the things to bring up, that was one of the last things he expected. His mind blanks. “Oh.” He’s been a ghost to Keith for years. “Why?”

  
  
“Grad school.”

 

“Oh,” He says again in response. Lance props his elbows up on the desk. He looks concerned. They’re too close to each other, it’s more intimate than Keith’s comfortable with.

 

“Have you talked to him at all?” He prods.

 

“No,” The only social media he has is instagram to show off pictures of his works, everything else causes fights.

 

“Do you want to see him? Sometime, with me?”

 

No, he doesn’t, because he doesn’t look good anymore. There isn’t a lot in his life that he’s proud of, nothing in particular he wants to show-off. The old picture he has on his phone of them reminds him that he’s been wrecked by his youth. By now, he’s grateful that he never got into Facebook or other websites that keep people “connected.”

 

“No,” He answers without beating around the bush. Whether it’s intentional or not, Lance is cornering him.

 

“Might be nice.” Lance suggests lightly.

  
  
“Sure,” He says absently and brushes him off.  

 

Lance flashes a sympathetic smile, and that makes the automatic tension between them heat up more. Nothing is worse to Keith than people looking down on him like he’s this poor, helpless victim who desperately needs saving. His patience already runs low with Lance, he crosses his arms to try and reel himself back in so he doesn’t snap and say something stupid.

 

“I always...” Lance hesitates, looking like if he should bring it up at all. “Wondered, what you guys were, when you were single for a while.” 

 

The fire in him extinguishes, and his spine freezes.

  
  
“ _ Nothing,”  _ The words tumble out as he tries to say them as quickly as he can. It’s always what he’s been telling himself, that it wasn’t anything. 

 

“I have something to do,” Keith says, leaving the counter to walk by Lance and flee. “Back in my… workroom. I’ll send Hunk out, if you need anything."

 

“Keith, wait, look,” Lance starts to backtrack, and puts his hand on Keith’s shoulder before he escapes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

 

“No you shouldn’t,” He snaps and pulls away. Keith stops though, for a moment, and makes eye contact with Lance.

 

“There’s lots you shouldn’t do. But you,” The past is chasing after him with a knife. Sometimes, he realizes that he’s the reason why they’re not friends anymore, and Lance didn’t do anything wrong. The remarks that he makes around everyone else about Lance cover up how guilty he feels over what he’s done to him, to them. “You do it anyway.” And he walks away before Lance tries to say anything else.

* * *

 

 

Keith hasn’t seen Lotor since the belt incident, and he’s been put on the backburner of his mind. His relationship with his boyfriend is better than it’s been in a long time, and everyone in the parlor has noticed that he’s been smiling more lately. He’s even asked to reduce his hours, so now he has two half-days during the week, instead of one. Work isn’t an escape anymore.

 

He’s in some sort of blissful haze, they haven’t been like this since Keith was in high school.

 

And it’s Lotor that cuts through it to remind Keith of his actual reality.

 

The days are still hot, but the nights have started to cool down. He’s halfway through a twelve hour shift when he gets a message, and does a double-take. A message from Lotor, who he hasn’t seen in months, that says, 

 

_ Check the trash cans when you get home. Come over if you must. _

 

Keith’s stumped over what he’s talking about, but it stirs up an awful, familiar sinking feeling that he hasn’t experienced in months. And he's inviting Keith over, in case Keith needs somewhere to go tonight? His heart contracts mechanically. His worries race, because Lotor likes to fuck with people, but never like this. What is he coming home to tonight? Is he naive for thinking that things were getting better?

 

“Everything okay?” Shiro fortunately breaks Keith’s train of thought, with gentle concern and a soft smile. Keith’s face gave away that he was mulling over something serious. He puts one of his hands on Keith’s shoulder to comfort him, and Keith clicks the the lock on his phone to hide the message. They meet eyes, and whenever Shiro looks at him with his warm grey ones, Keith can’t help but smile a little. 

 

“Mhm,” He hums, trying to calm his heart rate. “Might have to cancel our nightly bubble tea thing tonight, though.” 

 

  
  
  


  
  
  



	4. open a sky, get a handful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, shit isn't getting real yet, but my life is getting real. ALSO someone commented that they thought I KILLED BLACK and I SCREAMED and I need to clear this up IMMEDIATELY. The ending of the last chapter was based off of own my personal experience, though now I realize that it's kinda weird! Whoops.
> 
> This chapter leaves the Lotor/Keith relationship a little ambiguous (esp. of their past!) since there was supposed to be 6-8K more attached to this, but I wanted to post something this week! TY for reading!!

Shiro’s become familiar with the basics of Keith. His favorite color is red, customer interactions go right over his head and he adores his pet cat. Shiro’s even etched his way into more than that by spending as much with him as he has been. Keith orders double the boba amount with bubble tea. He’s impulsive, and also very sweet and caring and has a good sense of humor. Working long days gives him energy. And he really likes paying for others.

 

Most of Shiro’s days are focused around Keith, it’s part of his job after all, to focus on his co-workers and their appointments. But they run deeper than Hunk and Pidge do. Up until now, he’s been satisfied with what he’s been getting, but there’s hunger to know more. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t know that much about Keith. He doesn’t outright share things, instead he throws out subtle hints that even he may not be aware of.

 

He figured it out quickly that Keith was in the system at one point or another, after they talked about Shiro’s prosthetic. When Pidge brought up his boyfriend and he struggled to answer his questions about him, that tipped off that they’re not doing well. But Keith’s body language says more than he does, it says almost everything. That’s what Shiro relies on when Keith says that he’s fine. Whenever anyone brings up his boyfriend, he doesn’t make eye contact and looks down. Whenever he’s nervous, he fidgets with his hands and tenses his shoulders.

 

And that’s how he’s looked for a few hours, after he asked him if they could cancel their routine bubble tea trip after work. It doesn’t seem like it bothers Keith enough for it to affect his work, but in between appointments and during breaks, he looks down and fidgets. Shiro’s not sure if he should breach the topic or not, but it’s hard to observe and not try anything. He does try, eventually, settling for a time when Keith’s alone in his workroom.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Shiro says after Keith greets him with what looks like a forced smile. “We’re friends, if something’s…” He tries to play it off as casually as he can and hide his worry. “.. Upsetting you, you don’t have to go through this alone.”

 

Keith’s eyes widen in surprise, and he spends a few seconds glancing at Shiro, then at the ground, then back at Shiro, thinking. Taking his request to help for consideration. After what seems like an hour, with Keith’s apprehensive nature, he gives in.  
  
But his guard isn’t down, on the contrary, he looks more gated as he speaks. “I got this... strange text message earlier today.”

 

Shiro’s a little surprised he’s saying anything at all. He’d consider it a personal victory, if the circumstances were different.

 

“It could just be spam mail,” he suggests. Keith frowns, and shakes his head at Shiro’s guess.

 

“No… I don’t think so.” Keith says slowly. Shiro is very aware that his slowness is because he’s trying to be cautious of how much to tell him. “This person likes to mess with me a lot, but not like this. This is something that relates to something that’s recurring in my life,” He sighs. “I have to confront them very soon.”

 

The other day, Keith practically begged Kolivan for permission to resort to physical violence for rowdy and rude customers, after a guy called Shiro a slur. He’s a little convinced that Keith might react like that with any kind of confrontation. If his partner is similar in that vein, then Shiro can see how the relationship may not be going well.

 

“The guy who sent you the text?” Shiro asks.

  
  
“No,” Keith shakes his head a little. “The person that the text message is about.”

  
  
“I’d say to ask the person who messaged you more questions, but if he likes to mess with you, it sounds like he won’t say anything else.”

  
  
“He won’t,” Keith grumbles and crosses his arms to sulk. He leans against the break room’s table.

  
  
“What about,” Realistically, Shiro needs more information than just vague statements. He would say something completely different if the message sounded threatening, or if it’s just a genuine joke. He guesses that Keith can’t tell them apart, especially if it’s a cryptic message with no other details, or emojis. He wants to see the actual message. But sometimes Shiro forgets that he isn’t a social worker anymore, the same standards he held for the people he helped aren’t the same as helping friends out.

 

“Sending a message to the person you have to confront?” Keith looks a little more nervous,, and tightens his arms. Maybe this is the wrong thing to say, but Shiro continues anyway. “That you need to talk later?”

 

He looks up at Shiro, with a small frown but a very determined look on his face.

 

“Shiro,”

  
  
Shiro raises an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

  
  
“Is this what you would say to me, if you were still a social worker?” It comes off as rough, a sort of roughness that means translates to Keith’s still carrying something heavy from his past. That’s another thing that Shiro thinks he’s figured out. Keith doesn’t like social workers, and Shiro has to prove to him that he doesn’t treat Keith like a foster kid, instead of as a friend and equal. It makes him wonder if that’s why Keith’s hesitant to open up to him. Shiro shakes his head, and before he can say anything back, Keith widens his eyes in surprise towards Shiro and clams up.

 

“I’m sorry,” He says while straightening out his shoulders. “That was inappropriate of me. You’re not like that.”

 

“It’s fine.” It isn’t completely a lie, perhaps a half-truth. He’s glad that Keith thinks of him as the exception, but his co-workers care just as much as he did. He’s tempted to add that to their conversation in a non-confrontational manner, but that isn’t what Keith needs to hear right now. Besides, his apology is sincere.

  
  
“And, Keith? I’m always going to be Shiro, your friend.” he pauses, before adding truthfully, “Social worker Shiro would have pushed you to tell me more about what’s going on.” It was part of his job, the people he helped always had to tell him everything that they knew, and everything that they were feeling, so Shiro could help them to the best of his ability. Especially the mothers and fathers who failed drug tests. (That means they lost custody almost immediately.) He places a comforting hand on one of Keith’s shoulders. Keith’s shoulders loosen up a little and he smiles a little.

  
  
“Thank you, for caring. I’ll follow your advice,” he says matter-of-factly. Shiro cheers a little inside of his head. It’s a victory, a small one, but a victory nonetheless. Still, Shiro can’t kick out the feeling that Keith’s dealing with something  that resembles a ticking time bomb, waiting to detonate at any moment. But Keith carries himself a little better for the rest of his shift, and that’s what matters the most.

 

* * *

 

It’s too bad that he can’t tell any of his friends the entire situation, the whole truth. But he can’t imagine Hunk or Pidge offering anything other than a place to stay. His preference is Shiro not knowing. He had a revelation a while ago, that Shiro was a social worker and that’s another reason he doesn’t tell him anything. Nothing good came out of telling his old social worker the entire truth, that scares him into not being truthful. His instincts tell him to clam up around Shiro, despite how close they’ve become since he started.

 

But Shiro’s advice, from someone who barely knows about his situation, is good advice. He realizes what Lotor’s message means, and he’s stuck on how to feel anything, other than the desperate need to lay in bed, alone. None of his approaches in the past have worked. Reacting strongly, like throwing an angry fit, or crying and begging, doesn’t work. He isn’t sure what the best way is to approach this.

 

Keith does send a simple, “we need to talk” message before he waves goodbye to Shiro and drives home. It’s a little intimidating, especially if he considers their history. He gets a response quickly, “k b home soooooooon ;)”. It’s short, but a little relieving that the message comes off as a little friendly and open.

 

He likes getting home to an empty apartment sometimes. Work can be draining, his boyfriend can be loud, and Keith likes to sit on the couch and enjoy Black’s company. It’s relaxing when the only thing he hears is her purring. But tonight, it’s not comforting, and he has to take a deep breath before stepping inside his home.

 

Black chirps from the living room and skitters over to rub her head and torso against Keith’s legs. He bends over to give her head some scratches.

 

“Hey baby,” he sighs, dropping his head. She rolls over onto her back and sprawls out, whipping her tail back and forth. An obvious trap, he’ll only receive sharp paws in return if he reaches his hand or a foot out.

 

“Maybe later,” he says while standing up and makes his way over to the bathroom.

 

At first, he really did convince himself that this had to be Lotor fucking with him. Reality sank its claws into his forced oblivious mindset when he was tattooing someone and had to change the speed of the needle. Then it was obvious. The more he critically thinks about the past few months, the signs he missed, the more guilt he feels.

 

He’s delusional, they’re both delusional, at how easily he says that he’ll quit cold turkey, and how easily Keith accepts it. Just thinks that everything is fine again. The last time this happened, Keith reacted with pure fury, and went straight for his partner’s jugular. The dreadful feeling he has currently, is that his whole thing, getting clean and staying that way, is a hopeless want. Something that his fingers can’t reach. A problem that he can’t resolve.

 

the door with its obnoxious creak let’s Keith know that he’s too late to take that option.

 

“I got your message, what’s up Kit? Mad about the cups again? Look, I tried to reason with Black a little on this, but she’s just so stubborn.”

 

Keith tries to smile, because that’s their running joke. But he can’t, something crippling dawns on him, that he’s only been in a good mood for a while because of this. His silence isn’t ignored, his boyfriend gets a little closer, picking up on his mood.

 

“So, it’s not the cups,” he frowns. “Did something happen at work?”

  
  
He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it, shuts it. Tries to think of the right thing to say, but instead he says the first thing that’s on his mind.

 

“Are you high right now?” And regrets it immediately because his boyfriend changes his demeanor from concern to shock. Then they just stare at each other in silence, neither one moving or attempting to do something. That’s confirmation, to Keith, that silence says everything.

 

“How…” His boyfriend’s voice cracks a little. “How did you find out?”

  
  
He doesn’t mention Lotor yet, not quite yet.

 

“You forgot to throw them out,” he settles on.

  
  
“I should have hidden them better, shit,” His boyfriend says like he was caught . That makes the empty feeling in his chest ignite heat.

  
  
He tries to swallow but his mouth is too dry. He forgot to eat or drink anything. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  
  
“You don’t have to worry about this,” He’s avoiding eye contact with Keith, and Keith can tell he’d rather be anywhere but here. It’s a mutual feeling.

  
  
“I do,” Keith lets out an empty sigh, a defeating sigh. “Of course I do.”

 

Now he’s supposed to repeat what he said the last time this happened. Threatening him to go get clean, pleading to him to get help, getting angry, getting sad-- once he just tried to stay neutral, and came home after a long shift to a body that only came back to being his boyfriend after narcan stabbed it.

 

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it, and repeats that until he thinks about what he wants to do this time, his train of thought breaks when he hears him mutter a question.

  
  
“What was that?” Keith asks. His eyes widen a little.

  
  
“Did someone tell you?” It sounds accusatory.

  
  
That stumps him. “Yeah..” Might as well be truthful. “Lotor did.”

  
  
Not the answer he wanted to hear, his boyfriend’s nervous tic is biting his lower lip.

  
  
“Is that a problem, that he knows?” He bites his lip at Keith’s question.

  
  
“Don’t talk right now,” He orders. Keith’s temper flares.

  
  
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Keith says sharply. “I found two full syringes in one of the pockets of your bathrobe, and a bottle in the other.” Fuck it, he thinks, he’s not done. “And ketamine, ketamine? Where are you getting _that_ from?

  
  
It is an attempt to get him riled up. And Keith can’t believe it when it doesn’t. He doesn’t react.

  
  
Keith gets off of the couch and moves closer. He squints a little. “Why... do you look so..” It’s an emotion he rarely, rarely ever sees. The dread that’s starting to pool in his stomach almost makes him forget ending the sentence.

 

“... Scared.”

  
  


Keith can count the number of times, on one of his hands, that his partner was afraid of something. Even an overdose that left him dead for a few minutes didn’t do it. That means-- this is worse than that, in his eyes.

 

“What’s going on,” Keith moves closer until they’re almost chest to chest, he looks up at him. “What did you do?” That snaps his partner out of his fear driven haze and he snaps his hands on Keith’s shoulders, holding him in place. Keith makes a very small gasp.

 

“You love me, right?” his partner says, panic laced in his voice and in his breathing.

  
  
Keith squints at the question, that sounds so out of place in the moment. “Of course.” He says definitely. “That’s why I want to help you.”

  
  
He won’t look Keith in the eyes. “I need you to go to Lotor’s.”

  
  
“ _What?_ ” Keith staggers, slack-jawed. The grip that his partner has on his shoulders suddenly feeling far, far too tight.

 

“Black can go too-- I’ll even drive--”

  
  
“No, _no_ , what, I,” His mind stops working and he can’t get anything out. Silence fills the air.

 

“You-- you hate that, I hate that. It was forced, because of him being at the top. You’re _asking_ me to go? Asking, asking _me_ , he didn’t call for me. I.”

  
  
“He did, when he messaged you.”

  
  
“I’m not going.”

  
  
“Kitten, come _on_ \--”

  
  
“I’m not fucking going,” he protests and moves out of his arms. “Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on here!”

  
  
“ _Fucking_ \--” he exhales through his teeth, acting like Keith’s the problem here. “Anything I make, I’ve been buying with it. Lotor figured it out.”

  
  
“You have debt,” Keith finishes flatly. He feels hollow.

  
  
“Yeah. I’m.. trying to think of the right thing to say,” he says sheepishly, like there’s some sort of joke here.

  
  
“I have no words,” Keith’s voice shakes, either out of anger, or shock, maybe both. He’s not sure yet. He doesn’t know what else to add, instead of breaks away from their conversation and leaves-- to pack. To run.

 

His boyfriend stays rooted where he stands, until Keith’s voice cracks when he tries to tell Black that they’re going somewhere, for a little bit.

 

“Look, _look_ , I’m sorry,” he says while catching up to Keith in their bedroom. Keith can’t tell if that’s genuine or not, a half-truth or not. He refuses any sort of attempts at reconciliation, and bats his boyfriend’s hands away when he tries to hug him.

 

“Leave me alone,” he hisses, finalizing a bag. It doesn’t take long, there’s a routine that’s efficient and automatic to him.  


“Where are you going?” his boyfriend asks desperately. Keith whips his book bag onto his back and leaves the bedroom with Black in tow. Such a good thing, she purrs while Keith picks her up and carefully places her in it. It gives him a little bit of relief, that he’ll always have her. But his fire flares back up when he meets his boyfriend’s eyes.

 

“Lotor’s,” That surprises him but Keith doesn’t stop. “Because your boss, who treats me like his whore, who’s cornered me into sleeping with him, who’s gotten in the way of _us_ , because he likes doing it-- I’d rather be with him right now, rather than stay another minute in this house with you.” With his shoes slipped on, he starts to leave, before adding, “Don’t fucking talk to me.”

 

And he fucking slams their front door, making their walls shake and Black flinch a little.

 

* * *

 

Keith looks the angriest that Lotor has ever seen him, and he finds it strange because this wasn’t mandatory, it was just an offer. “If I squint my eyes, I swear, I can see steam rising out of your head.” It’s kinda funny to imagine it for him, because more than once has Keith come to him boiling.

 

The answer he gets, “You got in the way-- again.” doesn’t give Lotor any insight as to the reason why Keith’s here, and why he’s furious. It doesn’t set Lotor on edge, because Keith doesn’t scare him. However his tone and attitude, especially after Lotor offered him a place to escape, makes his patience start to wither. Quickly wither.

 

“I didn’t say this was mandatory,” he barks, and crosses his arms.

 

“Right, right.”

  
  
This is too much, for a night where he came home after a long day of dealing with people he doesn’t think deserve to be in the same room as him. “You’re too angry right now for me to deal with you,” Lotor groans. His partner’s an idiot, that’s for sure, for putting up with Keith and then instead of cutting ties permanently, just occasionally hits him back into obedience. Lotor expected that obedience training to happen tonight. But from observing Keith’s aggressive form, neat clothes and no signs of abuse anywhere, clearly that didn’t happen.

  
  
“You know why,” Keith accuses.

  
  
“No,” he denies dryly, growing irritated. It needed to happen, clearly. He doesn’t let anyone else run their mouth like this to him. Lotor can’t figure out why he lets this half-pint do it and get away with it. “No I don’t. Care to explain to me?”

  
  
Keith pauses for a second, losing some of that fire in his eyes. “What?” he croaks.   


 

It’s dumb to talk about their situation here. Everyone has some idea of what Lotor’s profession is, and no one bothers to disturb him about it. Still, nothing should be said in the open, to wandering ears.

 

Despite how he offered earlier, he wants to take his offer back and let Keith be fed to the hounds. Someone else who’ll rough him up for his behavior. It’s too late, he realizes and sighs to himself. Lotor _grabs_ Keith’s arm, sinks into the flesh as hard as he can, and pulls him into his apartment. Keith gasps a little, but doesn’t fight Lotor pulling him in. He still keeps his painful grip on one of Keith’s arms, and uses his free one to shut the door behind them.

 

The first thing he does immediately is deliver a slap to Keith’s face. Disobedience isn’t allowed in his personal space, even if it’s from his favorite. Keith takes a few seconds to recover, and when he and Lotor lock eyes once more, he doesn’t look the least bit deterred, they’re still full of anger.

  
  
“All bark and no bite, huh?” Lotor snarls. “Don’t interrupt me, or you’ll have nowhere to go.”

  
  
“I caught him immediately, I gave him a warning. He still continued. Then I learned it was ketamine. Ketamine’s expensive. And I thought about roughing him up.” Keith flinches a little. “But then I’d have to deal with _you_ doing something stupid. I thought we worked out a payment plan. Yes, I knew that he assumed that you’d help pay. No, I did not think that he’d send you over like something on a plate.”

 

“Then why did you send me what you sent?”

 

He rolls his eyes. “I had a hunch that he’d beat you bloody for it, since you don’t know when to shut that mouth of yours. That’s why I offered.”

 

“You’re lying,” His voice cracks. Lotor laughs a little as a response.

  
  
“What,” he smirks. “He doesn’t hit you for a while, and suddenly he can’t do anything wrong?” Keith silently opens his mouth a little bit, and Lotor revels to himself on how he’s hit the nail on the head. “I mean, you don’t have to believe me, the truth’s hard to take sometimes.”

  
  
Lotor likes messing with Keith because he takes whatever bait he has, no matter the quality. But instead of bringing out anger, Keith looks up at him with wide, sad eyes and frowns.

 

Jesus, Lotor thinks, it’s like looking at a kicked puppy.

 

And Christ, he thinks again, because Lotor hates puppies.

 

Their interaction started like many others have, but it’s twisting into something unusual this time. Keith looks like he’s teetering on the edge of having a legitimate breakdown, and the last thing Lotor’s comfortable with is someone crying on him. This needs a solution. He quickly plans to turn the boy away, let him go to a co-worker, maybe that Shiro person--

 

“You don’t have to pay with me yourself,” Lotor finds himself saying instead.

  
  
Keith looks at him like Lotor just offered him a place to stay without having to make himself have sex with him. _“Huh?” h_ e exclaims loudly.   


 

“Stay here for a while,” Lotor sighs in defeat. “He can work to pay it off. No need for this.”

 

“Why,” Keith asks in a small panicky tone, tensing up while looking like he’s about to run away. Why are you helping me?”

 

Even Lotor, who’s usually sharp about his emotions, can’t explain why and give a straight answer that won’t leave them both uncomfortable.

  
  
“Why bother explaining,” Lotor says a little too quickly, his face feeling a little too warm. “It’s not smart to turn down someone like me. Stay.” He hears a familiar meow out of Keith’s bag and exhales to control himself from snapping. “And let the little beast out.”

 

Keith obeys and gently dips the bag until it touches the floor, Black takes that as her cue to awkwardly flop out. The first thing she does after she figures out her surrounding is plop herself down onto Lotor’s feet.

 

Lotor forgot the extent of how much Keith tests him and his patience. He starts to unpack some more, and Lotor scoops up Black and sits in one of the chairs of his dining room while observing Keith. Black wiggles out of his lap and instead uses him as a stepping stone to bounce onto the dining table. For once, Lotor doesn’t insult her manners and permits her to stay.

 

After a few minutes, Keith finishes most of his unpacking, beside laying his clothes out for his next shift. He pauses in the middle of taking them out of his bag, and turns towards Lotor with a confused look on his face.  “...Where will I sleep?” he asks. Lotor squints at Keith.

  
  
“In my bed,” he answers with an annoyed tone.

 

Keith then points at Lotor. “Where will you sleep?”

  
  
“Also in my bed,” Lotor huffs, putting his hands on his hips. “Because it’s _my_ bed.”

 

Offhandedly, Keith feels a sense of deja vu, and feels the urge to reply with, “Sharing a bed before marriage? Wow.” But he ignores that urge, because this act of kindness is extremely out of character from the asshole boss that Keith’s come to hate, but unfortunately rely on.

 

Laying in bed sober is strange to both of them, though Keith will never bring it up. Nor will he mention to anyone about how Lotor’s never like this. It’s the opposite of who he is, his apartment is usually chilling. But right now it’s a little warm. Maybe it’s like the changing seasons, except it’s just the two of them.

 

In a room that isn’t enough, a space that will never be enough.

 

The wall facing Keith’s side of the bed has a modestly sized painting of a young boy dressed in blue who is carrying a small black pipe between his fingers. A bright warm color that’s in-between red and pink make up flowers that decorate a flower crown around his head.  In a similar color behind the boy are painted wings that consist of flowers. They look almost like bouquets. It’s beautiful, and Keith can’t help but comment it.

 

“I’ve never gone to bed here sober,” Keith muses to no one in particular, almost in a trance-like state while staring at the painting. “I never noticed this painting here.”

 

That rustles Lotor’s attention towards Keith, and he stops working on his crossword puzzle.

  
  
“Do you like it?” he asks with a curious tone, turning his head to focus on the painting.

  
  
“I know the style, Picasso.” He painted Girl Before A Mirror on a man’s back once, Picasso was one of his favorite artists to mimic. “Not the name, though.”

  
  
“It’s called Garçon à la pipe,” Lotor mentions offhandedly while diverting his attention once more to his crossword puzzle. “I paid a large sum for it.”

  
  
“I didn’t take you as someone who’d pay millions for a painting.” The Prius and crossword puzzles and now Lotor’s keen interest in paintings don’t add up to his profession and demeanor. Lotor’s is by no means pleasant, but he is interesting, like a book cover that doesn’t match the words inside. Keith stretches out on the bed and lets out a tired sigh, the day he endured has wrecked his spirits, and it’ll speed up the fine lines underneath his eyes. “What’s it in English?”

  
  
“Boy with a pipe.”

 

“For what his style was like,” Keith rolls over to face Lotor. “The names for his paintings are all pretty simple and to the point.”

 

Lotor shrugs, ignoring Keith’s eyes and his yawn, but musing over his comment out loud. “Maybe he grew too tired after each one to think about intricate names. Or he didn’t bother trying to bait people, he felt confident that people would flock to them no matter the simplicity of the name. He was smart for doing so. After all, his painting themselves are intricate.”

  
  
“You sound like an English teacher,” Keith teases with no malice. Lotor shrugs again, this time throwing on another annoyed expression.

 

“And your voice grates my ears after midnight. Go to sleep.”

  
  
Even after Lotor falls asleep several hours after he tells Keith to, Keith fakes it. His mind is too active, and Keith can’t stop reeling over every single detail of the messy interaction he had with his partner. He’s unsure if they’re even together anymore, after today. He fled to Lotor. But sleeping in his bed and pretending that they’re more than a boss forcing himself on one of his bitches leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The bed that they’re on feels alien, despite how he’s slept in it plenty of times.

 

His adrenaline prevents him from wallowing about the entire situation, because he’s hasn’t been this angry in a long time. Keith wants to at least attempt an unfamiliar mindset of finally leaving, finally getting out of the world that he’s been swallowed up in. There’s a feeling in the back of his head that this is all hopeless and for naught. He’ll end up back where he started. But it’s more docile than it has been in the past.

 

Eventually, when his eyes do struggle to stay open, and the only thing he can think of is how nice Black feels curled up on his pillow beside him. Despite how it ended, Shiro’s advice had helped to an extent. For once, Keith had the upper hand. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll ask Shiro for more advice. Or maybe be bolder and ask someone for a place to stay. Staying with Lotor in his sort of way is more strange and unsettling than Keith assumed it would be.

 

Although Black will be unhappy at leaving.

  



	5. i'm a love sick fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I can't believe it's been a whole ass month, sorry! I revised a ton of stuff but I have lots more written! Updates should become regular again. Should have more by next Saturday!! 
> 
> We're going back to the past!! And the present! :)
> 
> TW: dubcon  
> SUICIDE ATTEMPT I will put bolded *** as a warning right before it happens and right after it's done!

* * *

 

 

Keith’s met his boyfriend’s boss several times. They’ve all been brief encounters, because Keith’s hides out in their bedroom whenever one of _those_ people are inside their home. In a way, his boss looks otherworldly. It must be the hair.

  
  
“Disciplinary action,” Keith repeats back slowly. His boyfriend, who’s been leaning back in an office chair with crossed legs, uses the foot that’s on the ground to learn further back on the chair. He throws his head back and sighs.

 

“That chair’s gonna fall backwards if you keep that shit up.” His boyfriend rolls his eyes at Keith’s half-assed scold.

 

“You know, you really live on the fucking weirdest wild side. Don’t lean back in your chair, put the dishes where I can see them, hey, I’m gonna fucking pummel the shit out of one of your co-workers.” It should come out as a dig at Keith’s temperament and character, but his voice drips with affection. Keith flashes a smug smile and starts to say something about how much his boyfriend likes that, but stops when his boyfriend’s smile strains. “Can’t just go hitting whoever you wanna hit though.”

  
  
Keith frowns and prompts up from his slouched pose. “You’re in trouble, because of me?”

  
  
“He wants to see both of us.” His boyfriend says while nodding.

  
  
“Your boss,” Keith guesses, stomach dropping.

  
  
“Mhmmm,” His boyfriend draws out, looking untroubled.

 

“Shit,” Keith groans.”I’m so sorry.” His boyfriend shrugs nonchalantly. Truth be told, Keith hadn’t thought of the consequences of beating the shit out of someone. All he saw was red, all he could do was curl up his hands and charge. It dawns on him, here and now, that he really isn’t sorry for all of this, and it’s bullshit that they’re the ones getting in trouble.

  
  
“It’s noth--”

  
  
“ _Not_ for punching that asshole,” Keith’s voice rises while he shakes his head and specifies. “For getting you in trouble.” His boyfriend lets out a loud laugh and quickly leans forward in chair while straightening out his legs. He crouches over with both of his feet on the ground.

  
  
“That’s the Keith I remember. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Brush it off.”

  
  
“You don’t look like you’re brushing it off,” Keith mutters, seeing through his partner’s confident facade. His boyfriend nods and shrugs.

 

“Lotor’s... kinda a freak,”  His boyfriend sounds like he’s trying to reason to himself, rather than Keith. “A reliable and loyal guy, probs one of the best ‘round here. But he’s also a vegan, fucks guys and is in favor of gun control.” Keith scoffs and walks closer, until his boyfriend has to look up to meet his eyes.

  
  
“You know, Baby,” Keith squints with an amused grin. “We _also_ fuck guys, _and_ are in favor of gun control.” Feeling more pleasant than usual, Keith plops down in his lap and links his arms around his boyfriend’s neck. His boyfriend leans them back against the chair for more support.

 

“You calling me a freak?” his boyfriend muses. Keith nuzzles against his chest for a response.

 

* * *

 

The apartment building looks posh, it fits in with where Keith is, a part of town where if you forget to lock your car for the night, it won’t be ransacked come morning. Keith’s curious as to why Lotor lives so far away from where his business is.

 

The weather’s getting warmer. Still brisk enough in the morning for a jacket, but sunny enough to tie it around your waist. Sleep doesn’t come easy to Keith very much anymore, it shows in his gait and under his eyes. He forgot to set an alarm and woke up later than he wanted to. So, he looks a little bit more... _jostled_ , than Keith would like to look for meeting someone important for something that’s overall, his fault.

 

For a building that looks more like a cathedral, Keith’s surprised when he finds out there isn’t any sort of security. Even shitty college apartments have gates and locked doors. Anyone could ambush him, couldn’t they?

 

The interior and elevators are just as nice quality as the outside, and showy. Keith gawks for a minute or two, taking in his surroundings.

 

“Hey,” A curt, nasally voice cuts through Keith’s stupor. He looks to find the voice, it belongs to a middle aged lady with a small bright white pomeranian. She’s clicking her heels while walking towards Keith.

 

“Do you live here?” The worst part is that she’s a little bit taller than Keith is with her pumps on. Keith shakes his head.

 

“No,” He says bluntly. “M-ma’am.” That doesn’t please the lady, who’s been scowling since she spotted him. She looks like she hates Keith, just because he’s Keith, but her tiny dog doesn’t mind sniffing his shoes and wagging its fluffy behind. Its eyes are welcoming. Keith has to bite back a smile. It’ll come off as haughty. If Keith had more courage, he’d bend down to pet the dog, or at least wave hello.

 

She puts her hands on her waist, unsatisfied with his answer and not backing down. “Then you better leave.”

  
  
“I’m here to visit someone.” Keith points to the elevators. “He’s on the fourteenth floor.”

  
  
“People like you don’t belong here.” That’s something Keith’s heard before, it’s barely an insult anymore with how often he’s heard it. He sighs impatiently and puts his hands up.

 

“Look, _Ma’am_ , I need to go, before I’m late.” Finally, he looks down at her still very cute dog, and finally, _finally_ , he gets to talk to the best thing in the lobby. “It was nice talking to you.” The dog wags its behind again and yips. Keith darts over to the elevators, with the lady on his heels, barking more insults and threats. While Keith puts his hand out to press the up button, she grabs his other hand and tries to pull him back.

 

“I _will_ call the police,” she threatens, her face redder from stress. God, should he have worn a suit? Or dressed semi-formal? Cut his hair to seem more... Protestant? But she can’t call anyone with both of her hands busy, one holding a leash and the other digging into Keith’s forearm. Without thinking she hands _him_ the dog leash, to get into her purse to find her phone. The dog is easily worth a few thousand dollars. Keith doesn’t voice the blatant hypocrisy he’s currently involved in for fear of making it worse.

 

His mind scrambles on whether or not to get out of this lady’s grip and dash into an elevator or drop the leash and take off. A small fraction of his conscious tries to reason with him to take the dog with him. Would Black like a dog? Probably. They’re almost the same size.

 

The last thing Keith needs is a police escort off the premises, or worse. This-- this must be why Lotor doesn’t give a fuck about apartment security, not with nosy bitches like these here. The elevator dings that it’s arrived and Keith turns his head towards it, he decides on fight. If he drops the leash and wrestle out of this lady’s grip he can make it. She can’t be that fast while wearing pumps. Luck’s on Keith’s side, at least right now, because Lotor’s there when it opens, looking pissed, and Keith gives him a desperate look. Lotor raises an eyebrow until he spots the lady holding Keith hostage. He rolls his eyes, a sign to Keith that this scenario is familiar to Lotor.

 

The lady, who’s about to press the call button to actually phone the police, stops when she sees Lotor over Keith’s shoulder. Everything changes, her facial expression, overall demeanor, and she lets go of Keith’s arm. She was gripping it so tightly that the spots where she dug her fingers in feel warm and sore. Now she looks like a pleasant middle-aged woman, who was just stopping by to have a friendly conversation with Keith.

 

“Lotor,” her eyes are too bright. “It’s wonderful to see you, dear.” Lotor doesn’t put in any effort to act cordial.

 

“Mrs. Wilks,” Lotor says tiredly. There’s a slight twitch of one of Lotor’s eyes that tells Keith he’s really putting in some effort to not snap.

 

“I haven’t seen you around lately!”

  
  
“I wish I had more time to spend with you, but a certain... _busy-body_ , keeps making my clients late for their appointments with me.”

 

The lady, Mrs… Something?, closes her mouth in shame.

 

“I’m sorry, Lotor--”

  
  
“ _Keith_ ,” Lotor calls over, motioning with a hand. “Come here, you’re already running late.”

 

Well, Lotor doesn’t have to order Keith twice, he scrambles into the elevator, feeling an unfamiliar weight behind him that he doesn’t really think is important. Facing the back of the elevator, and Lotor, he doesn’t see the woman’s reaction when Lotor politely tells her that he can’t find the time to see her.

  
  
When the elevator door shuts, Keith lets out a breath of relief and Lotor looks down at him.

 

“I apologize for that,” Lotor groans and then sighs. Keith notices that he and Lotor have matching under eyes, albeit his are lighter. “You’re not the first she’s done that to. This week.”

 

It’s already the most they’ve ever interacted with since Keith met him. He knew that Lotor was tall, but standing close to him pronounces the height difference. Already, Keith feels out of his element, and they’ve only exchanged a few sentences.

 

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. They’re quiet for a while. The elevator’s slow, and creaks through every floor it passes. The silence is broken when they pass the tenth floor by a familiar, friendly yip. Both look down to Mrs. Wilkes white pomeranian, it’s so happy that it can’t contain itself and starts wrapping the leash it’s on around Keith’s legs as it circles around him. Keith gawks and makes a strangled noise, and looks up to see an unreadable look on Lotor’s face.

 

“I stole your neighbor’s dog.” Quickly stumbles out of Keith’s mouth. His face flushes, mortified. Lotor looks down at the dog, then back up at Keith, trying to bite back a smirk.

 

“You stole my neighbor’s dog,” he nods calmly.

 

Fortunately, Mrs. Wilkins lives down the hall from Lotor’s place on the fourteenth floor. Keith’s already in hot water for “not belonging” and “accidentally stealing a purebred that has a net worth more than you do,” so Lotor opens the door for Keith to step inside while he returns the “hell spawn to Lady Satan herself.”  

 

It’s the nicest apartment, or place, for that matter, that he’s ever been in. And with his “little commoner brain,” Keith freezes up and doesn’t follow Lotor’s instructions to make himself at home. When Lotor returns, dog-free, he eyes Keith up and down curiously, looking annoyed.

 

“Take your shoes off,” Lotor motions to the modest shoe rack beside the door. “I don’t want the white carpet dirtied.”

 

Maybe Lotor is kinda a freak.

 

Lotor makes Keith untie the jacket around his waist and then he goes to hang it up in the coat closet. Keith studies the place, his boyfriend hasn’t showed up yet. He sends a silent prayer that he comes soon, because when Lotor comes back, Keith internally panics because his people skills are still shit. And they can’t be shit around someone like this. Plus he technically stole a dog and hasn’t recovered from the embarrassment yet.

 

“Let’s begin, shall we?” he suggests. It’s not a suggestion.

 

“But I’m the only one here.” Keith shifts from one foot to the other, unsure of how to behave.

  
  
“Precisely,” Lotor purrs.

  
  
“... Excuse me?” Keith’s face scrunches up while Lotor’s menacing gaze starts to make his skin get goosebumps. “... Only me? For what?”

 

It comes out of the blue, at least to Keith it does, when Lotor grabs the front of his shirt and smacks his back against the wall. It knocks the window out of him and he hits his head a little on impact. That’s when Keith gets a more intimate chance to observe Lotor’s features. They’re sharp, and easy to look at it. He wonders to himself if his hair is naturally silver, because it’s so shiny and thick.

 

  
“A little dull in the head,” Lotor presses his back harder into the wall. “Aren’t we.”

 

Oh, this is where this is going. He’s going to get _beat_ for throwing hands.

 

“I’m sorry,” Keith blurts out. Lotor raises an eyebrow. “I know I shouldn’t have. But he called him a fag.” Lotor stays silent and doesn’t react, so Keith continues. “And I love him, it’s not his fault. It’s mine. So, please, don’t do, please forgive him, forgive _us_. Or, at least just punish me.” Lotor frowns a little.

 

“Who told you this was about you beating up some loud kid?”h asks.

 

“... My boyfriend did.” Keith gulps.

  
  
“Right, shoot.” Lotor snaps his fingers. “Whoops.”

  
  
“Whoops...?” Keith repeats.

 

“It must have slipped my mind to tell you why I want you here. I don’t care about a skirmish.” Lotor brings one of his hands up and tilts Keith’s chin up. “I care about you. You’re captivating, I’ve noticed you for a while now.”

 

Keith tilts his head to the side and furrows his brows. In the grand scheme of things, he’s hardly involved in anything and has almost no power. There’s no reason for anyone to have a special interest in him. “ _Me?”_

  
  
If Lotor wants to clarify, he doesn’t say so. Instead he smirks at Keith and goes silent. Keith unconsciously breaks his eye contact to look down at the floor, thinking. Then, he feels a hand under his shirt and on his skin. It’s cold, and it’s Lotor’s, and it makes him shiver.

 

Oh. That completes the puzzle. He isn’t an idiot.

 

“You want me to sleep with you,” he says monotonously, nausea grabbing at his throat. Lotor takes his hand away from Keith’s abdomen and ruffles up Keith’s hair like Keith’s a child.

  
  
“That took a while to figure out.”

 

Keith shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t want to.”

  
  
Lotor shrugs because that doesn’t seem to bother him. He always gets what he wants. “And?”

  
  
“I want to leave.” And Lotor’s off of him just like that, taking a few steps back and resting one of his hands on his hips. He oozes confidence, and Keith has such a flaming urge to challenge it, that he has to stomp on to extinguish the sparks.

  
  
“Either you can leave tomorrow as a free man, or, I’ll have someone come and take you somewhere you’ll never be able to consent again.”

 

_The nerve--_

 

“You’re threatening _us_.” This isn’t an isolated incident. Keith’s heard of this happening before, they’re powerless and fighting against it is futile. Fuck, this changes everything. His boyfriend’s raging jealousy about Lance, it built and built and built until it collapsed from weight and they had a fight that left Keith bloody.

 

But Keith left that part of his life. They were getting better. _This_ could destroy them.

  
  
“So, have you made a decision yet?” Lotor’s haughty voice cuts through Keith’s thinking. He returns to the nasty present.

  
  
“I’m not prepared at all,” his voice is starting to strain and he shakes his head, unable to meet Lotor’s eyes.

  
  
“I have what you need.” Keith squeezes his hands into fists and wants to be anywhere but here, as cornered pray. When did he get so docile?

  
  
“I don’t _want_ to.” Escapes his lips, a hopeless plea and Lotor looks at Keith the same way he looked at his neighbor earlier.

  
  
“You said that once already.” Keith’s right, his patience is running out. If he treats his men’s partners like his personal horde of whores, then this will be a continuous thing he can’t escape. His eyes burn.

 

Keith silently decides then and there that someday, he’ll get his revenge. He’ll ruin Lotor’s ego, and make him feel something he’s never felt before.

 

Something that’ll _hurt._ Something that will make him act irrationally and go out of his character.

 

But now, now he has to go down this road and can’t take any detours. God, and he was finally starting to wake up wanting to roll out of bed. He returns Lotor’s gaze with his own intense, fiery eyes. They’re so transparent that Lotor must have an idea of what Keith’s eventual plans are. This means war, with no opportunities to call a truce.

 

His only handicap is a problem he’s always dealt with. It’s the biggest setback he has. It’s fixable, however. Even if the results are temporary. They can be temporary in this.

 

“Do you have something I can take?”

 

Whatever he’ll get, he’ll take to reap the benefits of performing well. As long as he can’t recollect any details when he wakes up from pillow talk.

 

* * *

  
  
He almost forgets where he is in the morning, and the last twenty-four hours. Without waking up with a headache, or soreness in particular spots of his body, Keith first spots the painting, and looks around to see Lotor with two cups of coffee and it’s dawning on him-- he’s wading through unfamiliar territory. This domesticity, that isn’t laced with manipulation is not their agreement. Lotor looks at Keith expectantly, carefully handing over a mug of steaming black coffee.

 

Just the smell of coffee perks Keith up. He doesn’t have time to try and access this new kind of situation. That’s not what matters, what matters is finding another place to stay. Shiro plays over and over again like a VHS. Everyone knows but Shiro. Everyone besides Shiro will be crossing their fingers behind his back that this isn’t anything more than a lovers skirmish. He’ll try Shiro. Shiro’s safe.

 

“I’m going to see if one of my friends will let me stay with them,” Keith decides with a nod.

  
  
Lotor tilts his head a tad bit and raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t returning home?” he asks curiously.

 

Home. When will he go home. _Home._ When things get bad Keith hops from one place to another. Once he was passionate about protecting his home, which was the apartment he still lives in. Now, his feelings are best described as a step above impartial.

  
  
“What’s home?” Keith thinks out loud.

  
  
“Didn’t I tell you, I retired as an English teacher.” Keith doesn’t react to Lotor’s dry joke. He presses his lips together, and knows that this is out Lotor’s league, comforting people isn’t how you succeed. “You’re still upset.” Lotor sighs in defeat. Keith nods to affirm.

  
  
“It doesn’t feel real,” he says quietly.

  
  
Lotor decides to fill in the sentence for clarity. “That he picked drugs over you?” It’s the wrong way to go about getting more information, Keith grips the cup in his hand more and feels physical pain in his chest.

 

  
“Do you blame me?” Lotor asks pointedly, trying to cut through the tension between them. Keith doesn’t turn to face him, he’s enamored with the painting. Boy with a pipe. Apparently, the boy had been a poor boy who watched Picasso paint. The flower crowns were the last part added to the painting. They remind Lotor of Keith’s leg tattoo.

  
  
“For what?” Keith asks, knowing for who.

  
  
“Him.”

 

More silence.

 

Lotor used to be the enemy of Keith’s life. His despair was Lotor’s doing. But now, he’s somewhere in between an ally, and an enemy. It’s so confusing, Keith can’t put a title on it. Nor can he recognize when it shifted. Or why this all changed. No, no this wasn’t all of Lotor’s doing. Keith thinks it’s mostly his fault, for not being better. For not trying hard enough. For not being enough.

 

He should say yes. He’s a bad liar though.

 

“I used to,” Keith admits. They meet eyes. “I used to wish that you were dead. Especially after you made me come here.” Keith takes a long pause and looks down to the mug of coffee in his hands, adding, “Now, sometimes I just wish I was dead. It’d be easier. I’m so tired.”

 

“Stay here, if you want.”

  
  
Keith’s demeanor changes into something lower than fury. “As your whore?”

  
  
“As whatever you want to be.”

 

* * *

 

There’s no room for Lotor to hear a response about moving in, because he darts away to leave. His schedule is packed today. Something strong, stronger than last night stirs in his chest, that he hasn’t felt before.

 

* * *

 

4PM. It’s four o'clock in the afternoon when he senses that his eyes watering while talking to a dumb frat boy client who wanted a small tribal wrist tattoo. The guy looks at Keith like a deer in headlights, then Shiro starts looking at Keith the same way, and Keith can’t figure out what’s so interesting about him that’s making them stare. His nose is stuffy and he sniffles, Keith brings a hand to his face to rub his eyes, and oh. He’s crying.

 

He excuses himself, maybe the magic break room can help mend his spirits, or at least get him through the rest of the day. Chocolate is a girl’s best friend. Hunk once kindly informed him that he can be a very messy crier and the last thing he wants to do is cry in front of more people.  Keith picks a chair to sit at the table and slouches over the table until he can cover his entire face by laying it flat against the top of the table and supporting it with his crossed arms. There’s no home to flee to, and he’s booked all day, excusing himself early isn’t an option.

 

And of course the door creaks open. He stays as still as he can, hoping that it’ll look like he peacefully dozed off, rather than made a fool of himself earlier. And pray that it’s not Kolivan. He hears footsteps approach until he feels the soft touch of someone’s hand on his shoulder. Keith springs up and looks over to see Shiro.

 

“Shit, sorry about that,” he says.

  
  
“You’re good,” Keith says. “I’m the one who started crying in the lobby.”

  
  
“Who wouldn’t cry after a white boy getting a tribal tattoo after 1999?”

  
  
“Hah,” Keith props an elbow on the table and leans his chin on his hands. “You’d be surprised at how many I’ve done.”

  
  
“I check the emails,” Shiro says. His voice grows softer. “You alright, bud?”

  
  
Keith takes a deep breath in and a shaking one out.

 

“Last night _sucked,"_ he whines.  Shiro looks disappointed. "Your advice helped, but it still sucked.”

  
  
“It didn’t work out with the person you were telling me about?”

  
  
“Nope, and the person’s _the_ boyfriend,” Keith sighs. He has to beat his overwhelming urge to slam his forehead against the table down with a mental shovel. “It went really badly. You asked if I wanted to go home early, I don’t know where I can go.” More tears threaten to fall down his face and Keith sniffles again. Shiro moves the other chair close to Keith, and takes a seat.

  
  
“Stay with me for a while then,” he says while propping himself up on his flesh elbow. Keith mulls it over for a second, perplexed on why he offers his home so casually. Shiro’s so good, being with him feels like when the sun comes out behind the clouds on a cold day. Keith’s heart is always in winter, he likes Shiro’s radiance. But Shiro’s grounded, and Keith’s an earthquake.

  
  
“I don’t want you involved,” he declines. “Besides, if I do you’ll get sick of me. We’d be together all the time.”

  
  
“Keith, I could never get sick of you.” And there it is. Keith’s a burden on everyone else, and Shiro’s probably offering because he doesn’t know the extent of how much of a burden he is. Even still, Shiro’s reassurance makes him bend the knee. He feels something warm encompass his hand, and peers down to see Shiro’s hand on top of his.

 

“Thank you, Shiro.” There was a time when Keith was welcomed with the same warm affection, he forgot how much he missed it. He’s been wading through mud for a while, maybe a long time, and needs cleansing. A break. Keith needs a break, a refresher to wipe off and clean himself up, before he goes back to where he belongs.

  
Both of them hear the door creak, Keith holds his breath and prays it’s not Kolivan. It isn’t fortunately it’s Pidge who walks in. She opens her mouth, but words don’t leave. It’s like an imaginary remote put her on pause. After drinking up the scene in front of her, she raises her eyebrows and squints her eyes looking at them.

 

“Hey Pidge,” Shiro greets. Her intense stare makes Keith perk up. She must have heard about what happened earlier. Kolivan is Kolivan, Hunk is Hunk, and Shiro is Shiro. But Pidge is the one who cried for him. It’s imperative that he reassures her that everything is fine.

 

“ _Interesting_ ,” Pidge murmurs to herself in wonder.

 

“Pidge,” Keith says, scooting up to his feet.

  
  
“Hiya Bossman, Mr. Manager,” Pidge greets. “Heard you started bawling in the lobby, all dramatic, like a telenovela.” Keith puts his hands on his sides and rolls his eyes.

 

Kolivan is Kolivan, Hunk is Hunk ,Shiro is, well, the witness to Keith’s small breakdown, and while Pidge is one of the only people that Keith feels like he has to reassure-- _God_ it’s embarrassing that they all know about him crying. This doesn’t come close to the number of times he’s shown up to work with a bruise or a cut. He can put up walls with bruises, he can’t keep them up with tears.

 

“I shed a few tears in front of a kid with salmon shorts. Big deal. If this was a telenovela, my performance would have been better than that.”

  
  
“Maybe they’ll tip you more now,” Pidge remarks. “You confuse fratties, I think it’s the eyes. Hunk thinks it’s because you’re a body queen.”

 

Body queen. A reference to a drag queen that shows off her figure. Who has a, “body-ody-ody.” In this moment, he can’t believe Hunk’s betrayal. Hunk, who when he came into work high-fived him and told him his outfit is sick. Hunk, who has always been Keith’s _favorite._

  
  
“I _do_ earn ten percent of your tips,” Shiro smiles mischievously. “Maybe you should cry more often in front of customers, instead of yelling at them while waving a fist around.”

  
  
Keith gawks at both of them, then squints at Shiro for joining Pidge in teasing.

 

“What!” Shiro feighs shock. “Keith, this is a good opportunity for both of us.”

  
  
“Oooo Shiro, look out,” Pidge laughs. “Your job may be on the line now, once you stop being Keith’s favorite.”

  
  
“I’m your favorite?”

 

Others think that Shiro’s his favorite? Huh. He doesn’t have time to dwell on that because Shiro actually being his favorite is just as damning, with both of them betraying Keith and letting Pidge get away with this.

  
  
“ _I’m_ a body queen?” Keith exclaims, slack-jawed in disbelief. Pidge nods like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“You have a nice butt.” She puts a thumb up and Keith’s face flushes. Shiro tries to hold in a laugh and his body shakes from it and Keith catches it anyway. He gets redder.

  
  
“I-- If, if anyone here is a queen, then it’s _Shiro_ ,” Keith points at him, pouting. “You’re a muscle queen, if you wore more tank tops and tighter jeans we’d have a surplus at the end of tax season.” Shiro waves him off, declining.

  
  
“I’m saving myself for marriage,” Shiro laughs, and puts his hands up in defense. “I can’t just show off my assets to everyone.”

 

_Assets._

 

_Ass ets._

  
  
“Yeah, _Keith_.” Pidge puts her hands on her hips in cocky assertion. Pidge 1, Keith 0. “Don’t corrupt Shiro like this, the last thing Kolivan needs is two short shorts in the building.” Keith twitches. Pidge keeps going, picking apart Keith’s choice of clothing today that Hunk told him was sick. Is he lying? Have they all been making fun of him this whole time? “Why even wear shorts _that_ short, if you’re just to cover up your legs with thigh high socks and, the garterbelt? Really?”

 

Actions speak louder than words so Keith reaches forward and grabs Pidge’s glasses, then stretches his hand as high up as he can. Even when she jumps with all of her effort, she falls short of even touching Keith’s wrist. And that’s everything he needs right now, the sight of now his _least_ favorite suffering because of him.

  
  
“I’m going to file an HR complaint about you,” Pidge complains, failing again to reach. “Then, I’m going to make sure you’re banned from every single Hot Topic in the county.” Keith shrugs at her empty threats, unfazed.

 

“Good luck on that.” Keith rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Kolivan will really put his foot down this time. And, Hot Topic has an online store.”

  
  
“I’ll call corporate to ban your IP address,” Pidge counters, jumping to try again and literally coming up short again.

 

“You act like Hot Topic has bad clothes,” Keith peers over his shoulder. “Shiro, you shop at Hot Topic, right?”

  
  
Shiro smiles widely and nods. “I have a Totoro sweater from there.”

 

Keith worked at Hot Topic during high school and remembers the day that the Ghibli, Disney and anime stuff came into the franchise. It changed the entire culture of Hot Topic. Instead of having only scene kids messing around in the store (sometimes he joined in the tomfoolery) and playing loud screamo music, tons of normal people came in. They were forced to change the music selection to something calmer. What happened to _his_ Hot Topic?

 

“Earth to Keith, you there? Coming in for landing,” Pidge wrings him back into the present with her grating voice.

 

Despite his angst over Hot Topic, and Shiro confirming that frat boys go to Hot Topic, he still wins _because_ people like Shiro shop at Hot Topic.

  
  
“ _See?”_ Keith grins, lowering his hand so the next time Pidge jumps, she grabs her glasses.

 

While Pidge wipes the lenses on her shirt and puts them back on, Keith apologizes to Shiro for having to see this. Pidge huffs.

 

“Where’s my apology?” she demands, crossing her arms.

  
  
“You have to be,” He puts a hand to his neck. “This tall for apologies. Sorry, I don’t make the rules. You’ll have to talk to the _evil manager_ about this.”

  
  
Pidge mutters something about she’s still growing. Then she looks at the two of them again, squinting her eyes.

  
  
“Do you do that... often?” she asks.

 

“No--” Keith denies. “Most of my stuff from there is from when I drove you around--”

  
  
Pidge waves her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, the Funko Pops. No, I mean the whole, holding hands thing?”

  
  
“... Yeah,” Keith nods, tilting his head. “What about it?”

 

“I wanted to comfort Keith,” Shiro explains. He’s looking at her like she’s the weird one.

 

“... I have to send a message to someone,” She says, turning around to head out the door. “I’ll leave you two, _alone_.”

 

The door creaks shut, and it’s like they can stay in there all day.

 

“Keith,” Shiro says, standing up. “I forgot about something, do you need to bring your kitty with you?”

  
  
Keith’s heart skips a beat, in a bad way. Fuck, for a moment he forgot about Black. She can’t stay at Lotor’s, but she also can’t go back to his apartment.

  
  
“I do,” he says hesitantly. Lots of apartments don’t allow pets, this might break their deal and make things awkward, or have Shiro trying to accommodate him.  

 

“I’m so excited to meet her,” He grins, showing his white teeth.

  
  
Relief! Keith smiles just as wide. “She’ll be on her best behavior.” He confidently puffs his chest out. “I’ve raised her well.”

 

“I bet, knowing you.”

  
  
Their exchange, and Keith having a reliable place to stay at temporarily, quells most of the anxiety he was obsessing over all day. The rest of the day gets easier, interactions with customers return to being the bare minimum and forced pleasantness. Shiro leaves at 10PM, and Keith closes with Pidge. His phone buzzes from a message from Shiro that has his address written out. Shiro lives surprisingly close to the parlor, maybe that’s why he’s never late.

 

* * *

 

Keith shows up about an hour later, frazzled. There wasn’t a suitcase or anything in Keith’s hands, just a stuffed book bag and a satchel, which to Shiro’s delight holds what sounds like the most precious thing that Keith has. Keith sets it down slowly and Black hops out of it. She stretches out her back while Keith sets down his things at the front door and starts taking his shoes off. Shiro has seen many cats, of all shapes and sizes. But the black cat composed of floof and big green orbs tests Shiro’s need to scoop her up in his arms and pet her.

 

“Do you want any help?” he asks as Keith finishes taking off his boots and setting them aside. Keith shakes his head, finally smiling.

  
  
“I’m fine, thanks.” Black glues herself to Keith’s side, rubbing against his calves. Shiro’s already enamored. She stops and notices Shiro, blinks, and then rears her back and hisses. Shiro’s eyes widen in surprise while Keith jumps back and gasps.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Keith’s face turns pink. Whatever got into her, Black drops the aggression as soon as she hissed, and walks  

 

“She’s fine, maybe it’s the arm.” It’s a joke to try and reassure Keith, but he still looks embarrassed.

 

 _  
_ “Black, I can’t believe this.” Keith drops down to his knees and sticks his finger out to point at her, trying to shame her. “What, you stay with a cat hater for a night, and now you hate all cat lovers?”

  
  
“Your boyfriend hates cats?” Shiro asks. Keith looks at Shiro and freezes up.

  
  
“Oh, n-no,” he frowns, uncertain. “I stayed with someone else last night, and he hate cats. But she loves him.”

  
  
“Sounds complicated.” Shiro remarks, studying Keith. Keith’s face falters to something similar to remorse, he frowns and looks away.

  
  
“... Yeah. It is,” he says quietly.” It unintentionally insinuates a few things to Shiro, or at least suggests what the fight Keith had with his partner was about. But Keith doesn’t seem like a cheater.  

 

He turns to face Black again, who’s dropped her defensive stance and has started to lick one of her paws. “We’re guests here! No hissing,” Keith reprimands. Shiro tries to hold in a laugh. She stops grooming herself and looks up, letting out a curt meow.

 

“Thank you,” Keith sighs. “ _That’s_ what I’m talking about.” He turns his attention back to Shiro. “I’m going to set up her things.”

  
  
Keith goes to set up her litter box and bowls for kibble and water. Shiro decides to lean on the kitchen island and look. With Black rubbing against Keith’s side, Keith starts a discussion with her about her day, promptly ignoring Shiro. Shiro can relate to how Keith treats his cat, it’s how he treated all of his pets too. But it has him wondering about Keith. He’s been with his partner for a long time, he fell out with Lance, and according to everyone else at the parlor, and from what Shiro’s experienced, Keith keep people at a comfortable distance. Is Black the one constant in his life?

 

His effort to put distance between himself and everyone else is strange. Keith doesn’t have any irredeemable traits, there’s nothing unpleasant about him, even when he dismisses customers and messes up orders. The excited look he gets in his eyes when Hunk starts baking something sweet in the breakroom, his serious but caring smile he shows when he helps out Pidge with sketches, how determined he gets to try and pay for Shiro every time they go downstairs for bubble tea.

 

He’s a great person, everyone who’s in his life should feel grateful to have him in their life. But last night went so badly, that Keith cried at work. Shiro freaked out just as much as the customer did, he regrets that.

 

What happened? And why did he scramble to find another place to stay at, instead of staying at the place he was at last night for a few more nights?

 

Shiro keeps his eyes on Keith and Black the whole time that Keith’s unpacking her things. If there was a competition over pets and their owners looking alike, Keith would be at least win bronze. They have the same sort of unruly black hair and big eyes. It’s like seeing double when they both turn their attention to him.

 

“It’s getting late,” Keith notices, checking his phone. “Wanna get grubhub or eatstreet?”

 

“There’s a Chinese place a block away that I can call,” he offers.

  
  
Keith opens his mouth, shuts it while holding back a smile, and gives an ‘ok’ sign. “Sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

“So, last night was about the boyfriend?”

  
  
Keith swallows the spoonful of mapo tofu he was on and chases it down with a gulp of beer. It’s his third, and Shiro’s not sure if he should lie about not having any more beer and cut him off.

  
  
“We got into a big fight,” Keith groans. “We haven’t talked since. And, and Shiro, you know what?” His face is a little flushed, and his movements are more clumsy. Shiro’s sitting across from him.

  
  
“What?” he asks.

  
  
“I’m not going to Shiro,” Keith grips his beer bottle harder. “ _He_ can talk first.”

  
  
“... What if he doesn’t talk?”

  
  
Keith loses his vigor but keeps the hurt in his voice. He looks exhausted.

 

“I don’t have an answer for that,” Keith frowns. “I don’t know.”

  
  
“Does anyone else know him? Like Kolivan?”

 

“Kolivan _hates_ him,” Keith answers point blank. Shiro’s taken aback, because Kolivan’s always appeared to be a good judge of character.

 

“Did they get into an argument?” Keith shakes his head.

 

“They’ve never met,” he sighs. “Kolivan’s always thought of him as the bad guy.”

  
  
“Why does he think that?”

 

“He’s not a _bad_ person,” Keith says hollowly. He says it trying to convince himself. “But he’s troubled. He has problems, and that affects…” Keith stops talking, thinking. “It affects us.”

  
  
Shiro leans forward, itching to learn more about Keith. “How did you meet?”

  
  
“At a coffee shop. My card got declined, and he helped me out. Then we started talking.” He stops to finish the beer, thankfully he doesn’t ask for another one.

 

* * *

****************************************

 

It’s the best way to go. The cords just left him half paralyzed for a day and with a nasty ring of bruises around his neck. This, this will be quick. With cars going at least 80 miles an hour--

 

Keith feels a little bad for whoever might end up hitting him. That’ll suck for them. But he’s desperate at this point. His parents dying one after the other, being sent to this hellhole, maybe he isn’t cut out for living. He’s filled with sludge, and can’t remember what happiness felt like.

 

Someone-- who comes out of nowhere to Keith, hollers something at Keith. That’s as good as a cue can get. Keith takes a deep breath and starts scrambling to get over the brick fence and the horizontal black pole that runs on both sides. The faster the better It’s only a few inches shorter than he is and he has to put a foot on the stone and his hands on the poll above it to pull himself up.

 

Headfirst. That’s what websites say. Go headfirst. It’s fatal to the brain but the brain doesn’t feel pain. It’s faster. No pain.

 

Headfirst. Headfirst. Headfirst. He pulls himself up properly, he’ll slip and fall if he tries to stand completely on the rail. Headfirst. That would get the job done but he’s less in control-- headfirst

 

Keith feels something grip the hood of his hoodie and rip him back. His back smacks into the chest of someone. Keith tries to charge at the bridge but the man that saved him has already predicted it and he locks Keith’s wrists with his big hands.

 

“Who the _fuck_ ,” Keith gasps offended, voice shaking. After the initial shock he starts struggling, to no avail. “Let me, what are you doing-- let go of me!”

 

“You _really_ think I’m gonna let a kid jump?” They struggle more, Keith tries to bite at the guy’s arms but he has a killer grip. He’s not going anywhere. He’s not getting his way. And it’s all because of this adult. It’s always an adult. They ruined his life and now they’re not letting him leave. A whiny sob escapes Keith.

 

“I hate you, I hate you. Fuck you, you piece of shit--” Keith turns around to get a better look at the guy, still cussing. He’s used to adults looking at him in disdain, annoyance, and in ways that make him shiver and whimper and hide in a locked bathroom. But this man looks upset, and panicky, over a kid he’s never met. Keith pauses, loses his bite. The fury in him slides out, the drop that follows after adrenaline leaves him hollow. His legs get weak and the man aids him in falling to the sidewalk without hitting his knees onto the concrete.

 

He uses the man who tore him away from jumping as leverage, gripping his shirt as panic fills his lungs and makes him shake. Shit. This morning was almost the last time he woke up, he craved it, until now. His skin crawls. It’s a hot day, he’s in a large hoodie, but he sweats from fear. He feels a hand pat his hair and _damn_ , that’s what he’s wanted since his mom died. Keith buries his face into the man’s chest and sobs.

 

****************************************

 

When Keith’s held closer-- It’s everything he craves. Everything that he needs to put bandages over the bad touches, the cuts, the scars, the bruises, to cover them all up until they heal. The man buys Keith a meal at a coffee shop nearby, and they leave early from it when he spots the dark bruises around Keith’s neck, like a choker. The way he fusses over Keith reminds him of his parents. He goes with the guy to his nearby apartment and lets him rub salve over the bruises. For all he knows, this guy’s a serial killer, and Keith’s fallen for his trap. That doesn’t scare him, who gives a fuck anymore. The guy’s a looker, his name rolls off Keith’s tongue softly, his hands are big and his voice is warm. If he’s a goner, then so be it.

 

(He is a goner, but in a different way.)

 

* * *

 

“Shiro, am I stupid?” he chokes out.

  
  
“For what, Keith?”

  
  
“Wanting to text him and apologize, wanting to ya know... Go back to him.” He puts the palms of his hands on his face. “I cried in front of a _frat boy_ today.”

  
  
“I don’t think you are, Keith." Keith expects that as an answer. Shiro’s too nice to call someone an idiot.

 

“ _But._ ” Shiro says hesitantly. Keith takes his hands off of his face.

 

“But?”

 

“Sometimes, we grow out of people,” Shiro explains. Keith tenses up.

  
  
“What if we don’t want to grow out of people?” Keith responds, hypothetically, of course. He thinks about it more, his eyes widen and adds, “What if we _can’t_?”

  
  
Shiro mulls it over with a loud hmmm. Keith leans in closer.

 

“I felt like I couldn’t leave my career in social work, it was a big chunk of my identity. But if I stayed, I probably would have ruined my health. There’s a reason my hair is gray. Sometimes, I do feel guilty about leaving my cases and co-workers behind. I got really attached to the kids I worked with. It was hard at first, even when I started working with you less than a week after quitting. I felt very guilty, and regretful. But now, after a few months, I don’t regret it anymore.”

  
  
Keith leans even closer, in disbelief. “Not at all?”

  
  
“Not anymore.”

 

Keith doesn’t respond, it’s not the answer he wants to hear, but it’s the one he needs to listen to. He drank too much.

  
  
“I think you can do anything you want, Keith,” Shiro says genuinely. Keith looks up, Shiro’s eyes are warm. “If you put your mind to it.”

 

It isn’t that easy for him.

 

* * *

 

 

Why he can’t. Why he can’t. Why can’t he?

 

 

* * *

 

His previous foster parents never reported Keith as a runaway. It was like the wild west after that, his boyfriend managed to get him into a school in the neighboring district and they began living with each other while he was in high school. It was a week before his junior ended that social services left a note on the door of his apartment. They had caught him, and a family friend wanted to skip fostering and outright adopt Keith. It was loads better than being sent to a random family, or worse, being returned to the prior foster family, Keith felt like he didn’t really have a choice. It was more like, pick your poison. Pick which shitty adults you have to live with. The state had demanded that Keith had to move in with Kolivan, instead of the place he had been staying illegally at for three years.

 

Unopened boxes are stacked around him while he sits indian style in the middle of his new room. It’s a modest house, in a modest neighborhood, with a man who doesn’t want Keith for money or his body. Kolivan knew his parents. They had gone through old pictures of his mom and dad the first time they met. This is the foster child’s dream, but it’s suffocating Keith. His lips are bleeding from constantly biting them, and he’s paranoid about Kolivan going into his moving boxes and finding things Keith shouldn’t have. There’s too much Kolivan doesn’t know, and not a lot that Keith wants to tell him.

 

Keith tries to play it off as a friend, a confidante, but Kolivan raises his eyebrows.

 

“I want to meet him first.”

 

“I lived with him for three years.” he crosses his arms and furrows his eyebrows. “You can trust him.”

 

Kolivan hadn’t know about that, they haven’t talked about where Keith’s been after he ran away.

 

“What’s your relationship with him? Is he a teacher? Or a friend of the family? How old is he?”

  
  
After three years of creating and forming his own adolescence, the last thing he wants is an adult barging in and trying to change his identity and what he has. Kolivan isn’t his parent and will never be his parent. The paperwork he filled out changes some of Keith’s legal status but emotionally it changes nothing. He never wanted a new parent. There is no room in his heart for another parental figure. He hates foster care. He hates social workers. He hates foster parents and by that extension, he hates Kolivan. Or rather, Kolivan’s the target of years of emotional despair and trauma that Keith’s had chained up.

 

Already, he’s run out of patience with Kolivan and he snaps saying, “That’s none of your business.” It’s the wrong thing to say, it’s being defensive when there’s no need to be, and a smidge of color leaves Kolivan’s complexion.

 

Shit, Keith thinks. Kolivan’s not an idiot. He knows.

 

“How long has this relationship been going on, Keith?”

 

Fuck.

 

“A year,” he bluffs, shrugging.  

 

Kolivan inhales, and then exhales. “How old is he?”

 

Fuck!

 

“ _He’s_ \--” He’s not going to answer that. “He’s the whole reason I’m graduating school, he’s done more than you or anyone else has--”

  
  
“If he was a good person,” Kolivan interrupts. “He wouldn’t be in a relationship with you. You’re a child.”

 

No he’s not. Children are afraid of the dark, children don’t worry about their next meals, children don’t chip in for bills and rent. Children weak, and small, and need to be coddled.

 

“I’m not a child!” Keith furiously shouts.

  
  
“Yes, you are,” Kolivan huffs. “And you shouldn’t see him anymore either.”

 

Keith puts a hand to his chest. “He saved me!”

  
  
“That isn’t saving,” Kolivan says with exasperation. Keith shakes his head, denying anything sick like that. “He took advantage of you.”

  
  
“No he didn’t!” His voice cracks. If anything Keith’s taken advantage of him. “He was there for me when you, _you_ ,” Keith’s eyes water. “I was in the system for two years until I ran. No one did anything when I asked for help. No one tried to find me. If you really cared about me, you would’ve done something sooner! No one cared, no one actually cares about me!”

  
  
“That’s not true whatsoever, Keith.” Kolivan frowns. It’s Kolivan not getting upset that’s unraveling Keith more. “The state wouldn’t _let_ me, and I never stopped trying.”

  
  
“That’s bullshit!” Keith stomps one of his feet. “I don’t believe you.” He bites back tears. “You don’t actually care about me, you don’t know who I am, you don’t know what I’ve been through, I don’t need you.”

 

“ _Keith_ , ” Kolivan takes a step forward and Keith takes a step back. “I’m not the enemy here.”

 

The two big important life lessons he has learned are to never trust adults, and never try to trust any of them.

 

“Then let me live my life,” Keith shakes and points to Kolivan. “And you live yours. The, the age of consent in this state is seventeen.” He counters, and points to himself with his thumb. “I’m seventeen now. And you can’t prove anything.”

 

Kolivan’s unfazed.

 

“I’m going to report him anyways.”

 

Then he won’t live here. He’ll runaway again. Keith begins to walk by Kolivan, who puts a hand on one of Keith’s shoulders to stop him.

 

“If you leave, I’ll make the police bring you back,” he says. Keith brushes off Kolivan’s hand and keeps walking.

 

A year. One whole year, he’ll turn eighteen, and he’ll never have to see Kolivan ever again.

 

“Do your worse.” is all Keith mutters. He avoids Kolivan’s eye contact while he escapes out the door.


	6. i got the grip like the handle And i'm bikin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short and quickly edited! I'm not able to update for a while because of school. Hopefully I can get one more out before season 8 airs!!! Thank you for reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, tw DV, implied underage and noncon!!

* * *

 

It’s good advice. It really, really is good advice. They’ve known each other for almost a decade, all of Keith’s youth. They have grown, for the worse rather than the better. Maybe this needed to end sooner.

 

But love is irrational, to give that to someone who’s already irrational, it’s Keith’s downfall. Closer to a death sentence. There’s even something a little romantic about it. Strangled to death by the two hands that grabbed him from jumping off a bridge. Being a love martyr, that’s what that is, right? Not a victim, a _martyr._

 

Does he like living? Sometimes. Why only sometimes? He got a bad hand of cards. But why's he still playing then?

 

He's bikin’ uphill, but it hurts his quads.

 

He can't answer why he hasn't braked yet.

 

* * *

 

The alarm on his phone that brings Keith out of a dream he won’t remember in a few minutes, but it isn’t what wakes him up. He jerks himself up, eyes wide while he studies the room questioning where the hell he is. Mornings leave him groggy.

 

Black however, does not follow in her father’s footsteps. He’s still not sure where his boyfriend picked her up, well, Keith’s never had a pet before her, but cats love sleeping in, right? Or at least when they wake up, they’re just as disoriented as he is, right? The door to his room isn’t completely shut, there’s no obstacle in the way and Black is in his room in a matter of seconds after hearing Keith’s alarm go off. Practically screaming while vibrating her tail, she pitter-patters closing in on him until she hops onto the bed and meows loudly.

 

“Mornin’ Baby,” Keith greets. She responds with another meow and Keith hears her loud affectionate purring.

 

“Is he finally awake, Black?” A sweet voice calls out. Black responds with a loud meow while Keith internally scrambles to figure out who this is. He hasn’t heard that voice in the morning before--

 

“Keith? We go in in two hours, I have coffee.”

  
  
Oh, oh! It’s just Shiro. _That’s_ right, Shiro is letting him stay with him.

 

… Because he got into a fight with his boyfriend and Lotor’s been weird. Oh. Right. His chest gets heavier and he leans forward until he’s face first into Black’s back. She chirps a little in distress and wiggles her way free.

 

Today, it will be hard to stay afloat in this mess. He’d rather drown.

 

He checks his phone, no new messages.

 

Fuck.

 

This isn’t _the_ fight.

 

They’ve battled that already and the end result was a dent in the wall of his dorm room, a bent leg of a chair and a “break-up.”

 

On the contrary, this is one of the tamest they’ve had. The lack of physical confrontation doesn’t dismiss the severity. The situation, the request, this was something big. He walked away without injuries yet the pain from betrayal and need to see him is borderline unbearable.

 

An apology shouldn’t cut it. Keith knows he should expect more, rightly. Volunteering to get better, to prove something to him. A promise to change, and this time fulfilling it. Self-worth. Someone with self-worth would hold up the offender to their actions and demand change, and flee if nothing changes.

 

The definition of self-worth is lost on Keith. His pride and joy is the parlor. It’s a damn good parlor, small and flourishing, and part of his home. What else does he hold that proves he’s valuable, that he has something to offer to society?

 

In some way he’s still that anguished kid about to jump off a bridge. Life progressed everywhere besides his mental state. The spiral towards deciding to do something serious on a whim hasn’t shrunk. It steepened. He wishes he had just been hit. Waking up with aches and bruises is nothing compared to this emotional fallout.

 

“I’m up,” He calls out, trying to mask his bad mood and put some lightness to his voice. “Let’s go Black.”

 

Shiro’s apartment is modest and very clean. It’s old, not as old as Keith’s place, but the bathroom is a dead giveaway of its origin. The bright yellow floor tile in the bathroom matches the walls illuminated the bathroom in a way that blinded Keith when he took a shower the night before.

 

The loud brightness matches what Keith sees as he steps foot into living room. He knows what he looks like in the morning, which is why he isn’t sure if he should be impressed, or in awe when he sees Shiro bright-eyed and bushy tailed, sitting at the table near open kitchen. Reading a newspaper. Who can read right after they wake up? He doesn’t say anything and continues to take in this new setting.

 

“Morning,” Shiro says, perking up. Keith squints from how blinding Shiro is. “Sorry about opening up your door. I woke up, and Black was screaming and hitting the door. I didn’t want her to wake you up.”  


“Sounds like she likes you now.” Keith grins like a proud parent whose kid finally likes vegetables.

 

“My work husband’s kid approves of me,” Shiro says while biting into a muffin. “There’s banana nut muffins on the counter.”

  
  
Last night he didn’t study Shiro’s home as much, the kitchen looks like Shiro just moved in. There aren’t any spices littered on a counter or up in a shelf. There’s no oven glove in sight either. And, fruit? Don’t people put fruit and bread out? He’s in Shiro’s debt, but he can’t stop himself from snooping. He spots two protein powder containers on top of the fridge. Is that all he eats, protein?

  
  
Keith peaks into his fridge-- and shockingly, besides more protein shakes and some salad bags, the shelves are stacked with _sweets._ His fridge is more than 50% simple carbs and foods with added sugars. Keith looks over at Shiro with his mouth agape. Where does it go? The temptation to check the freezer is too much for him so it pulls that open too. It’s filled with popsicles and ice cream. He can’t stop a gasp coming out of his mouth.

 

If Shiro hadn’t noticed before, he does now. “Looking for something?”

  
  
“Oh.” Keith turns a little red from getting caught. Busted. “Just.. confirming something.” He says while delicately shutting the freezer.

  
  
“... What’s that?”

  
  
“Where do you _put_ it?” He demands. “What’s your secret?”

  
  
“It’s the Shirogane genetics. My parents were the same way,” Shiro says while smugly grinning.

 

“...Although, they had more self-control than I have.” he adds sheepishly.

 

They’ve never been this casual in front of each other before. He’s a little relieved that work Shiro and home Shiro are through and through, the same person. At first he was a little suspicious about Shiro and curiously wanted to learn more about his homelife. People as good as him usually have ulterior motives or a few skeletons stuffed in their closet. There’s nothing like that going on with him. Maybe Keith’s warped from living somewhere where Shiro’s don’t exist.

 

“It _has_ to be that. You’re tall too,” Keith sighs. “If only I could do this too,” he pouts.

  
  
Shiro mock gasps, looking offended. “You eat just as many sweets as I do at work!”

  
  
“But I’m not an adonis like you,” Keith argues. Then he squints in eyes in annoyance. “Once, Lance called me a _twink_ .” He considers twink a curse word. He’s not a _twink_ \-- Shiro bites back a laugh and puts his newspaper down.

  
  
“Has Lance always had trouble keeping his mouth shut?” he asks.

  
  
That stirs at something in him but Keith shrugs to hide it. “We aren’t close anymore, but when we lived together? Yes.” But it wasn’t always a bad thing. “What was he like, as a co-worker?”

  
  
“He’s really talkative, and liked pulling pranks,” Shiro sighs like a grizzled war veteran. “Once, he got in a lot of trouble messing with the head of the organization I worked for. Matt and I were his damage control.”

  
  
Keith smiles fondly. He likes that part of Lance more than he’d ever admit outloud. “Sounds the same.”

  
  
“But you know. He’s a hard-worker. And he learned fast.”

  
  
“Sounds the same, too.” They didn’t share the same major, and weren’t even in the same college on campus. But as roommates they spent plenty of time studying in their cramped dorm room. Lance pulled just as many all nighters as Keith did.

 

Social work. Keith thought he’d go into a social science after taking a few psychology classes. He didn’t expect social work. They talked a little bit about Keith’s past, starting with a drunken confession on a Thursday night that he didn’t have parents and his foster family was awful. He isn’t that self-centered to believe that he chose it because of him. Of course not. But was he considered in Lance’s decision.

  
  
“... Do you have his number?” Keith hesitantly inquires, looking down.

  
  
“I _do_.”  

 

Maybe it’s time to grow. Or at least attempt to. Keith looks up at Shiro.

 

“You want it?”  


 

* * *

 

He dreads this exchange. Kolivan’s not his father, but legally he’s his guardian. It’s only right that he tells him his living situation.

 

“Do you need anything?”

  
  
“It’s about Shiro.” Kolivan raises a brow and leans slightly forward in attention. Keith has half a mind to ask what he thinks he’s going to say. He bites his tongue and tries to ignore the itch to start something. But there’s a time and a place for another argument and it isn’t here.

 

I’m staying with him for a little bit.” He didn’t expect telling his friends would leave him a little red faced and leave him with a desire to spend the rest of his day as a recluse in his workroom. With always prioritizing his privacy with his personal life, he feels exposed-- almost naked. A vulnerability he thought wasn’t possible yet. Pidge’s soft jabs were bearable, their sympathetic smiles today are too much to bear.

  
  
“That’s good.” That’s what his friends already conveyed nonverbally. For obvious reasons, he left an escalating situation. For once, he followed good advice and did the “right thing.” But hearing Kolivan say it triggers something inside of Keith, an emotion and mood that only comes out when it’s Kolivan.

  
  
“I bet you’re _thrilled_ right now.” Keith’s voice goes low and shakes. Kolivan frowns, and shakes his head.

  
  
“I’m glad you left before you got hurt.”

  
  
“I’m not a child,” he says defensively. “Don’t worry about me.”

  
  
“If you say so.”

  
  
“I _know_ so,” he corrects. He’s haughty about his independence whenever Kolivan implies otherwise.

 

“Alright, well let me know if you need anything from me.”

  
  
Everything he’s experienced in his youth, he sees in Kolivan. As an adult, sometimes he reflects about how he acted like a rotten kid when Kolivan wanted to step up, and still sometimes does. Kolivan’s never stopped trying. But in the heat of the moment, Keith forgets how remorseful he is for burning the bridge of their relationship, and never allowing it to be rebuilt.

  
  
This time, he catches himself before departing Kolivan’s office with a door slam, an action that’ll give him strange looks from everyone in the building. He halts, takes a deep breath and says a half-hearted thank you while turning away and shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t bother for hearing a response.

 

The day goes by and it’s unspectacular. All it consists of is a faked good mood and finding a spotify playlist that doesn’t have songs about love, longing or breakups. He gives into temptation more than once and checks his phone obsessively throughout the day. He’s unsure if that’s a good or a bad thing, that he’s not getting a message back. What could his boyfriend possibly say today? The wound he left is still too raw, anything would end in a fight.

 

But it’d prove that he cares. Does his boyfriend care? What the fuck even are they anymore?

 

* * *

 

Shiro fills in their conversations on the way home from work, and throughout the rest of the night. By now Keith feels guilty by getting Shiro more involved than anyone else ever has been. His eyes arch from holding back tears. Maybe he shouldn’t have done the “right thing.” He should have stayed. Or, stayed at Lotor’s longer, who already knows all of Keith.

 

He picks at dinner, but helps cleaning up and laughs at a few of Shiro’s bad jokes. Then he excuses himself to bed. Sleep might not help. It’s a distraction, though, and he needs a distraction before he loses his mind.

  


He’s in an endless space, nothing but black around him that continues for eternity. The floor is an endless thick grey sludge. Like quicksand, both of Keith’s feet sink down. He gasps while trying to lift them up one at a time to no avail. It stops swallowing him. But it begins to climb up his thighs, paralyzing him. Something sharp runs up his spine and he feels it hit every single one of his vertebrae, it shakes the discs in his back. Everything tightens and it hurts immensely. Harsh trembles barrow their way in while he shakes.

 

There’s a name he wants to call out. It’s the same name he calls out every time. And after he does, this ends. He’s woken up. This time, it won’t happen. He won’t wake in comfort. Maybe that’s worse than not waking up at all.he

 

“You haven’t called me,” His voice is broken. The sludge inches it’s way further up, adding pressure to his hips. His ribs feel brittle while breathing becomes harder to do.

 

“You won’t help me.” Louder, he adds. “You won’t even hold me!” The tight squeeze around his chest forces air out with a wet hack. Keith brings his hands to his chin and swipes it to identify, it’s the same thing that’s pressing him to death. He needs to say more, begin pleading for him-- or maybe at this point anyone to get him out.

 

But it takes his arms and hands next at a brutal pace. Any hope of making any voice. His vision grows darker, he feels the sludge invading through his mouth, then nose, then both ears. Eating away at feign neutrality, he can’t make out anything. One thought rushes to his brain. This will kill him. He won’t wake up from his dream. A death sentence, this dream is a death sentence.

 

What would probably be painless in the real world becomes excruciating in Keith’s dream. It flattens him into a flat horizontal line, crushing his skeleton and organs with a sick crunch into a pole, crushing him. Still conscious, before he can scream, the next thing he sees is a white popcorn wall ceiling. Disoriented, he jerks up on his elbows

 

“You’re okay.” Someone puts their hand on one of Keith’s. Keith closes his eyes and tries to even out his breathing. His hair sticks to his forehead and the back of his shirt is sticky and clings to him from sweat. He wants to keep them closed. It’s comforting. Maybe this was all a bad dream. He’ll wake up, and his life with be the same as it has been for years. Something that’s never quite on balance, but familiar. He creaks one open in hope, and his heart drops when he makes out the figure crouched down next to him.

 

It’s just Shiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really curious if ya'll think if Keith's gonna go back or not... I'm mighty curious. I'm trying to portray this DV relationship as accurately as I can, I hope I meet your expectations! I also totally forgot this was rated E!!! I thought we were T for TEEN. This changes everything I'm very excited.


	7. Flickering Sun. When in the dark we run amok. Cut and undone. Don't settle for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wish I could like... bring you a happy chapter. The past what, six days? Have felt so long, but also so short. A lot of content creators are sticking in the sheith fandom, I hope you do too!
> 
> tw: DV!!

And his flat reaction to seeing Shiro beside his side doesn’t go unnoticed by the latter. However Shiro confuses Keith’s disappointment for plain exhaustion, and a want for familiar comfort.

 

Nightmares have been a common part of his sleep life. Car accidents plagued his dreams in his early twenties. Then, the grim parts of work he couldn’t leave at his office trailed behind him well into the early morning at his old job. They still linger, hitting him once in a while. He hadn’t fallen asleep yet when Keith’s yell startled made him jerk up in his bed. Another yell, and he stumbled off his bed to the guest bedroom to rouse Keith out of his nightmare.

 

Shiro ignores Keith’s wet back and start rubbing it, trying to treat the other young man like he’s carved out of glass. In this moment, he can’t shake off that he’s using the same tactic he used while he was a case manager. With prior knowledge, or at least Keith’s obvious hints that he was a foster child, he inclines to feelings of guilt.

 

Social worker Shiro. That’s what Keith said once in brash scrutiny.

 

“You’re okay,” He gently tries to convince Keith. The latter shakes his head, and tries to bury it in his hands. The harshness of his breathing sends ripples through Keith, and the way his body shakes is horrible. Whatever he dreamt of, if it send Keith into this panic, it had to have been bad. From his forced smiles and lack of interest in engaging with others, the inevitable fallout of his relationship, whether if it’s from it burning out, or driving over rocky terrain, must be settling in and drowning his insides.

 

But Shiro won’t press further. This morning and early afternoon he seemed put together. Until he stepped out of Kolivan’s office and his composition started to rip at the seams. He brooded and sulked the rest of the day. No one expected Keith would break the news to Kolivan, and everyone expected his mood to sour after he did.

 

The person who knows the most out of everyone Shiro knows, is Lance. Everyone else ranges from soft to dim light, while Shiro suspects he’s completely in the dark. Hunk’s advice to support Keith, Pidge’s contempt, and Keith’s own carefully selected bits and pieces is all he has. A sinking feeling has attacked him when Keith asked him about outgrowing people, and what action to take if he doesn’t want to outgrow someone. The same particular premonition he suffered from the last case he exposed himself to during his final months as a case manager reared its ugly head.

 

Keith frantic tug on his nightshirt and a wet gagging sound covered by the palm one of his hands. He jerks forward, and another gag rips from his throat. It’s a familiar action that he’s handled across demographics, from drunk undergraduates, to his coworkers and foster children.

 

“Shit, hold-- hold on.” Shiro leans to his side to grab the small trash can stashed in the corner of the room, and positions it for Keith who spills hot bile into it.

 

Keith’s breathing returns to its original hagged state, but his eyes aren’t clouded over in panic and misery. He’s calmed down internally.

 

“I wasn’t able to grab your hair,” Shiro says regretfully, slightly taken aback by how strangely thankful he is for the vomiting. “Sorry about that.”  
  
“Don’t apologize,” Keith snaps. His dishevelled appearance enhances while his breathing finally levels out. Touches of vomit here and there touch the tips of his tousled dark hair and his cheeks are stained from tear marks. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” He croaks while explaining. “I woke you up. _And_ I made you hold the trash can.”

 

If this is Keith’s attempt to deter Shiro from helping more, it’s a poor attempt.  
  
“I was in a frat,” Shiro reassures, fighting back his urge to pat Keith’s back or touch his shoulder. He’s familiar with vomit and it doesn’t gross him out much, but possibly getting some on his hands sounds unpleasant.  “You were nothing compared to the college girls I’d hold plastic bags for.”

 

Keith’s mood finally improves. His smile is small, but it’s a smile.

 

“You would.” Some of his voice’s smoothness returns. The light-hearted dig at Shiro’s helpful temperament makes Shiro’s concerned gaze soften. Keith grimaces a little and sighs.

 

“I should shower,” Keith groans. His hair has a sick ombre that starts with it sticking to his forehead sticky from sweat and slowly transitions to the hair ends that didn’t survive the great hurl of Shiro’s guest bedroom.

 

“I’ll change the sheets and clean up a little bit.” Keith’s tired expression turns brooding. His wants to do everything himself and try to dismiss Shiro. Shiro shakes it off before Keith can air his demand.

 

“I want to,” Shiro interjects. Keith’s eyebrows raise. “Let me.”

  
  
“I owe you.”

  
  
“You don’t owe me anything. Now, go shower.”

 

**_______________**

 

 

The shower was short and Shiro swears he heard a muffled sob at one point, but when Keith returns, wearing borrowed pajamas, he looks much, much better.

 

“What was it about?”  
  
“I died.” It comes out as a shameful confession, barely above a whisper. Keith stares down at his hands, and doesn’t move. So Shiro does, and he holds one of Keith’s hands. But even after a light squeeze from Shiro, Keith’s remain limp.

 

“Death can mean rebirth,” Shiro says, trying to connect the dots. In his undergraduate, he knew a girl in his arts and humanities class who had a fetish for the supernatural and gave people tarot cards readings. Something about her seemed off, but when she offered he didn’t refuse.

 

His stomach dropped when a card that had a black and white skeleton was picked. But she laughed at his complexion and how quickly he paled. He thought she was being cruel until she tried to comfort him and pat his shoulder with her hand, the same one that drew the card. Death doesn’t mean physically dying. Death can mean shedding your being and becoming something new. Acquiring a new, better self.

 

Then he lost his arm in an accident. Those words have stuck with Shiro since.  
  
Keith’s weak grip tightens and he shakes his head.

 

“No, no I died. _I died_.” He looks like he’s fighting back tears, eyes watery. “Something… something crushed me.”

 

Maybe you should stay, Shiro wants to say. But tonight isn’t the night.

 

**_______________**

 

He took Shiro’s open hand and now he’s home, stirring awake by the time the sun is halfway in the sky. It was a fitful sleep, the first thing he does is ingest the cold brew in the fridge. By the time he finishes a third cup, his head feels less groggy and slow paced. Of course, no new messages on his phone. It rings out some of the artificial energy he consumed. Another day of suffering, like he’s still a damn teenager with raging hormones.

 

Fuck.

 

Black, and cheesy daytime television shows barely distract the obsession thoughts churning. An hour or two after watching, he starts to debate about heading back to bed when fervent knocks alert him. Must be the post person, or maybe maintenance. Getting a package or letting an employee isn’t a big deal with his state and he doesn’t hesitate unlocking (it’s a little amusing how Shiro locked him in) the door until he hears _that_ voice. _That_ voice that grinds his teeth and reminds him of parts of his past he recoils from the most.

 

He stiffens. But it’s too late to pretend that he isn’t here. The lock’s already half undone, the noise betraying him just now. Loud knocks evolve into knocks that are more like slamming fists. That’s it, hesitancy and fear shift into annoyance and pissed off energy.

 

“ _What--_ ” Keith snaps as he rips the door open. “Do you _need_ something?”  
  
Lance’s shit eating grin seems to be a permanent feature of his, rather than an undergraduate phase.

 

“Heard you asked for my number.” Suddenly Keith decides he’s actually in enemy territory, rather than the kind home of a sweet co-worker.

 

“From who?” Someone’s going to pay for this.

  
  
“Hunk,” He answers, dripping with smugness.

 

Ah, two betrayers. Perfect, work will be a war zone now.

 

He looks better than Keith himself does, but not by a lot. There are bags under his eyes that are darker than Keith remembers them being. His posture is a tad bit more wilted, his clothes disheveled. Anyone unfamiliar with Lance wouldn’t notice anything.

 

Or maybe Keith’s too observant.

 

“You look like shit,” Keith says bluntly. He ignores his concern when Lance looks at him in surprise. Is he overthinking, or has no one else said anything to him yet? Has no one else noticed?

 

“Looks like we match,” Lance counters with a tired smile. Keith frowns and crosses his arms, leaning against the door.

 

“Why are you here?”

  
  
“It just so happens to be,” His voice perky. He dramatically puts a hand to his chest while declaring, “That _I_ took a spontaneous day off as well.”

 

“I.. see? Okay?” Keith says, squinting his eyes and slightly tilting his head.

  
  
“Figured we should hang out?” Lance shrugs while suggesting, like it’s obvious. The last time they interacted, Keith had to escape from an awkward mention of his past, and an invitation to re-open the past. They haven’t been on good terms in a long time, but it’s the tensest it’s been in a while. Keith doesn’t budge, his feet feel glued to the floor and his back glued to the door. The timing is much too suspicious.

  
  
“How much do you know?”

 

  
“About this?” Keith nods and Lance frowns in disappointment. “That you’re staying here. That’s all Hunk said.”

  
  
That changes the circumstances. Hunk’s too nice. If he only told Lance that, he probably didn’t realize that Lance goes above and beyond in shit like this.

 

Shiro on the other hand. _Heard you asked for my number._ Unnecessary. But, definitely a needed push. Having Lance’s number reminds him of shitty fights he indirectly caused. This is opening up the same can of worms that Keith tries his best to seal shut.

 

“Why’d you ask for my number?”

  
  
It was honestly on a whim that sprang from a fleeting thought of trying to actually change something in his life that had been eating at him. Now he draws a blank. The idea of going through on that whim had little to no chance of happening.

 

“I don’t know.” He settles on, almost remorseful that he can't think of one.

 

There are a few seconds of awful silence. Lance puts his hands against his waist to try and take over this entire encounter.

 

“Well, get dressed. Staying in bed all day has never helped you. There’s a cafe we’re going to, they have a Victorian sponge cake that’s killer.”

  
  
“You’ve been watching that bake-off show, with Hunk?”

  
  
“Shut it,” Lance sticks out his tongue. Keith has half a mind to return the juvenile act but resists.

 

“Fine,” He sighs, throwing in a white flag. Lance perks up and ignores Keith’s presence as he bumps into his shoulder while forcing himself into Shiro’s place. He bites his tongue and heads straight to the guest bedroom. He forgot Lance’s booming voice that he gets when he’s excited. Black must be thrilled with Lance’s exclaims and coos. Technically, she grew up with him. Did she miss him?

 

Did Keith miss him?

 

**_______________**

 

“Has anyone told you that your fashion sense sucks?” Lance asks after taking a loud sip of a latte he ordered. Keith finishes a bite of the sponge cake Lance raved about the entire time they were in line. He admits that it deserves the praise.

 

“You could never,” He dismisses. It isn’t the first time that someone has expressed that to him. Lance doesn’t have a rebuttal. Good. Because truly he could never.

 

“Wig,” Lance mutters before sipping his cup again. Keith gags and Lance rolls his eyes dramatically.

 

“Sorry I’m cultured.” This time Keith rolls his eyes.

 

They haven’t spoken this long in years. He used to talk to Lance almost every day, yet here he’s struggling to keep up on things to discuss other than the inevitable shit Lance will want to drag out of Keith’s closet.

 

“So, Shiro. How’s that going?”

  
  
“He’s…” Strange question. He has a smile on most of the time. Did Shiro tell him about his panic attack last night? He looked distressed while helping Keith.

 

“Good,” He settles on. Lance clicks his fingers on the table, unsatisfied.

  
  
“So you two are… something?”

  
  
“Friends, yeah,” Keith says raising his eyebrows. “We’re good friends.”

  
  
“ _Just_ friends?”

 

Outside it’s scorching and the cafe uses the air conditioning frugally. Keith’s blood runs cold.

  
  
“I’m still in a relationship, you _moron_.”

  
  
“Woah!” Lance exclaims sheepishly. “Woah, sorry. You want to contact me, and you’re living with him. I just assumed!”

  
  
“He’s letting me stay with him while this blows over. I’ve only stayed with him for two nights now.” Keith grits his teeth. It's a sore spot. “I’m _not_ a cheater. And we aren’t like that, and won’t _ever_ be like that.” He’s an octave slightly below yelling, unintentionally too loud for their conversation to stay anchored between the two of them.

  
  
“Yeesh,” Lance says quickly when others start to stare. “Sorry, forgot that’s a sore subject for Keith-y boy. So it’s not over.”

  
  
“Nope. Is this why you brought me here?” _To accuse me of being easy?_ He has half a mind to scornfully tell Lance off, but Lance leans back. Retreating.

 

He doesn’t know. Keith has to remind himself that Lance doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that Keith has been beaten before, because of Lance. That the worse fights he ever got into were because of Lance. The man in front of him, who he considered to be his best friend at one point, is like a forbidden fruit for him. This is dangerous. He’s walking a thin line.

 

“I _missed_ you,” Lance says without skipping a beat. It’s the perfect thing to say because it catches Keith off-guard. “And that isn’t why I wanted to see you. I have a kid, who reminds me of someone, that I want to talk to you about.”

 

**_______________**

 

“He asked me about a foster kid.” Keith says.

 

Shiro doesn’t know Lance as well as Keith thought he did. But, it was nice. They didn’t touch on their falling out. Probably for the best. Besides a few mishaps, Keith had a decent time.

  
  
Shiro rolls his eyes. He looks bothered by what Lance asked. “Of course he did.”

  
  
“The kid isn’t doing well in their home, and he wanted to know what I thought about it.”

  
  
“Yeah?”

  
  
“I told him to listen to the kid, before the foster parents.”

  
  
Shiro hums. Keith nudges him.

 

“What?”

  
  
“You’re right, I think.” He grins at Keith. Keith huffs at his teasing until Shiro puts a supportive hand on his shoulder.

 

“No, Keith. I really mean it,” Shiro reiterates more seriously. “It’s automatic, honestly. To go to the parents first. We work-- well worked, with foster parents closely. Some are great, some are some of the best, selfless people that I know. But,”

  
  
“Some aren’t.” Keith finishes curtly.

  
  
Shiro nods. “You’re right. Some are in it for the money. And some just shouldn’t be _parents_.”

  
  
“Speaking of parents,” Keith leans back in his chair. “How was work today, kid #3?”

  
  
“Missed ya, pops.” Shiro winks. “Your regular stopped in anyway, and dropped off some fruitcake. It’s dripping in rum, in the fridge at work.”

 

“Shiro..” Keith tilts his head. They’re nowhere near sweater days, much less winter. “ _Fruitcake_?”

  
  
“I know. Even Kolivan was baffled. He asked about you, everyone did. How are you feeling?”

  
  
Ah. That brings out a smile. “Better.”

 

 **_______________**  


He isn’t sure how to feel. Proud? Betrayed? Jealous? Black’s taken to Shiro almost _too_ well. She almost trips him up as much as she does Keith. They’ve made an indent on the sofa in the living room. Black sitting right next to him, her front two paws stretched out on Shiro’s lap. Shiro has an outstretched hand laying casually over her back.

 

Or it’s guilt, she seems to love it here. But this is all temporary-- right?

  
  
They’re both heavily engrossed in a retro television show called Golden Girls. Keith’s never heard of it himself, but she only shows interest in the television when Animal Planet is on. It cuts to a commercial and Shiro catches Keith staring at the two of them.

 

“Hey,” Shiro greets, taking his hand off of Black to move it past her and pat the empty seat on the sofa. “Do you want to watch something? I have Golden Girls on, but we can change it to something else.”

 

Keith takes up the offer and sits down, feeling like a third wheel.

 

“You seem very interested in this show,” He says to Black.

 

“She came up when I sat down,” Shiro scratches her head and she purrs. She makes no effort to even acknowledge Keith.

 

“At this point, I’m going to have to have the shovel talk with you,” Keith pouts.

 

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”  


 

**_______________**

  


_“Stay as long as you like, okay?”_

  
_  
_ “Shiro--”

  
_  
_ “I mean it, Keith. What are friends for?”

 

A dream, he thinks while he’s laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. All of this is a dream. He basks in it because he knows it’ll be over soon. Staying with Shiro is a dream. Spending time with Lance is a dream. The feeling is reminiscent of the last three months he spent in college, being courted by a boy who just wanted Keith to feel happy, and not wanting anything in return.

 

**_______________**

 

 

Days turn into one week, and then one week turns into two. Lance stops in after work to thank Keith for his advice. He considers himself barely involved, but he lets the praise in and it brightens his mood a little. Days aren’t hard. Keith crams as much in as he possibly can after the sick day he took. It’s nights that hurt. The ringtone and text tone for his boyfriend’s number are different from everyone else’s, and at night he cranks the alarm volume. It can’t end like this. Maybe he’s delusional for thinking that.

 

After the awful night with Shiro, his sleep has improved. He’s out like a light when his head hits the pillow. If he dreams, they’re not important to remember in the morning. They’re sitting side by side in Shiro’s apartment, coffee in hand.

 

His phone violently vibrates, the beginning of Notorious B.I.G.’s Big Poppa plays and Keith nearly jumps out of his seat.

 

“Aren’t you too young for this song?”

 

 _“_ _To all the ladies in the place with style and grace_

_Allow me to lace these lyrical douches, in your bushes”_

  
  
It’s a _long_ story.

 

“Yeah but he isn’t,” The sly smile on Shiro’s face says it all. Flustered, he stands up and practically runs to his room.

 

“Good luck!” Shiro says from the kitchen. He shuts the door behind him. He knows that as soon as he hears, _“_ _'Cause one of these honies Biggie gots ta creep with,_ ” means that the call is about to go right to voicemail. Why does he feel more nervous and dreadful than relieved. No time to answer, he clicks the green call button and takes in a deep breath to strap in for whatever kind of ride this is going to be. He has no idea what to expect. Or, even better, how to respond. He’s the one who always comes back. Keith’s always the one to reach out first. Their roles are reversed. Gulping, he shuts his eyes tightly and presses the phone to his ear. Waiting. Not answering with a hello.

 

Come and chase me, is what he silently says. Get me. He wants to feel important. Wanted, because he learned a long time ago that feeling wanted is one of the most difficult things to achieve in life. And, he learned not to let it go, no matter what wounds that it leaves.

 

Silence. There’s no background noise. Is this an accident?  Something loud, that he can’t pinpoint, threatens to send him into the same trance he fell into when Shiro woke him up.

 

“Um,” He awkwardly stutters, giving in. “Hey. Hi? Anyone there?” He hears an exhale on the other line. “Um. Uh. Knock knock?” Trying to crack a joke. God, he’s an idiot.

 

A quiet voice answers on the line. “Who’s there.” Not a question, an awkward, forced response.

 

“I missed you,” Keith says. It’s sincere, but his disappointment growing. He resolved to play tough to get. Has he always been this _easy_?

 

“I don’t deserve it.” He hears.

 

“I mean it.”

 

  
“I know. You shouldn’t--”

  
  
“You don’t to get decide how I should feel,” Keith snaps. “Sorry.” He adds a beat later, cringing.

 

“It’s… okay,” He hears a sigh. Keith is aware that he messed up. You’re fine.”  


 

The reassurance falls on deaf ears. It’s not fine. He wants to punch something and then scream. He’s not fine.

 

“Why did you call me?” Keith settles on.

 

“To ask what you want to do, want us to do.”

  
  
“What _I_ want to do?” He repeats, at loss with words. “I want to see you… Can I? Does tonight work?”

  
  
“You work tonight?”

 

“Mhm, ‘till late. I close.”

  
  
“Yeah.. yeah, that’s good with me.”

  
  
Empty. This is he wanted, the whole time. Yet, when the line disconnects, his eyes are heavy while he carries a hollow chest. Didn’t he want this? The blood that he licks from a small cut on his lip-- when did he start biting his lip? Makes his mouth taste like pennies.

  


**_______________**

 

 

He gets there so late that after amends are made, ( _I missed you, I’m sorry, let’s talk in the morning.)_ and both head straight to bed to sleep. It’s the first relaxed night of sleep he’s had in a while. He finds it easier to get out of bed and get ready for work, starting with a shower. Without thinking, he leaves his phone charging on the nightstand.

 

The shower’s quick and the clothes he tosses on are a band shirt and a pair of leather black shorts. He heads back into the bedroom to ask how well his boyfriend slept, but looks curiously at him. His boyfriend looks troubled, and Keith notices his phone in the middle of the bed, half-covered by bed sheets.

 

“What?” Keith says with a raised brow. He doesn’t get a response.

  
  
“Hey,” Keith puts his hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Where have you been staying?”

  
  
“A co-worker’s place,” Keith crosses his arms.

  
  
“Not Hunk’s.”

  
  
Keith presses his lips together. “... No.”

  
  
“ _Oh._ You never told me about them.”

  
  
“Really?” Keith sighs. “ _This_ again?” He’s met with silence and continues.

 

“A new hire,” He says cautiously. “.. From a few months ago.”

  
  
“ _A few months ago?”_ His boyfriend sits up, showing a troubled frown. “Why am I just hearing about this now?”

  
  
“Because I knew you’d flip out, and I didn’t want to deal with it,” He tries to beat down his annoyance but it still laces his words. “I still don’t want to deal with it.” Keith shrugs.

  
  
“Well, we’re dealing with it.” It comes off as nonchalant. Keith sees shaking fists and takes a step back as his boyfriend throws the covers off and stands up.

 

“He’s a _co-worker,_ ” Keith spits. Doubt starts dripping down to his stomach. Was this a mistake? His back hits the wall and before he can access the situation, a fist hits right above his head. They’re close, and he realizes that he got himself trapped.

  
  
“You didn’t have to hire him.” His heart rate starts to increase.

  
  
“Well, we did, and he’s a great addition.” Keith says honestly. The eyes he meets narrow. “And neither Kolivan or I have plans to fire him. He’s staying, and you’re going to have to deal with it.”

 

A palm meets his cheek. The heat in his cheek that follows the slap threatens his resolve to bend the knee and end the scuffle before its pool overflows.

 

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

  
  
“I’ll talk to you however I want to.” He doesn’t get a physical reaction this time, and his mind races. “God. What am I to you?” His cheek burns. It dizzies whatever hesitancy he’s ever had about confronting their relationship.

  
  
“What are you going on about?”

 

“What are we? What _is_ this, us two.” He looks down at the floor, and grows quiet. “Do you love me anymore?”

 

The silence that follows speaks magnitudes. It loudly tells him he should flee, go somewhere else. There’s an opening. But how far can clipped wings fly?

  
  
“Is this part of your plan?”

  
  
“Plan?”

 

“Pretty shitty way of trying to break up with me.”

  
  
“You think I’m trying to end us? How?” Keith gapes. Why does this surprise you? The back of his mind says, the part that is still fighting.

 

_Sometimes we outgrow people._

 

“I haven’t thought about leaving you for anyone!” His voice grows. “I stayed at a co-workers place because you tried to _sell_ me--”

 

“--And I already apologized for that!”

 

Keith tries to hide a shiver that crawls up his spine and steps forward. He sharpens his glare. “You didn’t for two weeks.”

  
  
“I’ve been busy, just like _you_ have.” It clicks in Keith's head.

 

“Is this about Lance?” Keith says in disbelief.

 

The lack of a response says everything.

  
  
“You…  looked through my phone just to see if I talked to _Lance_?” The ludicrousness makes him roll his eyes.

  
  
An accusing finger meets his chest. “And you did.”  


 

“Because we were--” Keith takes a breath in. “Are friends.” The clarification strengthens his posture.

  
  
“Are?”

  
  
“ _Are_!” He pushes his boyfriend away as forcefully as he can. “I’m friends with Lance, and my co-worker. I won’t stop being friends with them. We’ve talked about this before. You can’t control me like this!”

  
  
Keith’s shirt is grabbed and he’s yanked forward a few steps involuntarily. “I’m looking out for you.”

 

He’s trying to reason with a brick wall. Their air conditioner runs properly but all he feels is hot. Instead of trying to come to a compromise, he wants to sink his teeth into those hands and make it _hurt._ But he can’t. Because he chose to come back. He chose this. He can’t keep leaving or making this relationship get more wilted and ruined. Comfort. His boyfriend needs comfort. He can just delete Lance’s number and pretend that he cut ties. And he doesn’t know Shiro’s name. This can have an easy ending, where he doesn’t continue to hurt himself by acting out. Because, after all. They’re in love, right? Keith puts his hand up to caress his boyfriend’s face.

 

“Don’t be jealous all the time,” He tries to reason, trying hard to smile and relax his furrow. Say it softly and lightly. Smile. His body’s trained to smile, for customers he can’t stand and while de-escalating them.  


Right?

  
“Jealous?” Wrong thing to say, he messed up-- again.

 

“You saved me.” He’s too late to cover this up with a bandage. “I’ll never hurt you like that.”

 

It’s ripped off. A sudden, choking hand wraps around Keith’s wrist and pulls. Too sudden to react and pull back, he’s pulled onto the bed on his knees.

 

“Show me then.”

 

“No, _no_ I don’t--” He’s pushed onto his back and bounces a little from the force. Kisses scatter up and down his neck and he shudders. “I don’t want to.”

 

“What? Afraid of showing me something?”

 

Keith’s response is an attempt to hit his knee against the chest above him. It makes contact and leaves a small window for him to break free. Trauma drowns him, and freezes him in his spot. Actions that remind him of his unmentionables are his kryptonite. Whatever expression he gives, betrayal, pain, shock, doesn’t make a difference. He’s cornered against the top of the bed, against his will. It doesn’t matter who it is, what his connection is, every time Keith just sees a large shadowy figure that outlines someone from his teen years and fries his brain to short-circuitry.

 

His practiced outlined formula when he’s sober consists of taking it and going somewhere else. Closing his eyes and floating away. His stomach lurches as hands that aren’t his grope. He’s brash, easy to upset and his eyes glow in flame despite their cool color, but he’s never protested the last thing he ever wants.

 

_I think you can do anything you want to._

 

His legs are held down and instead he hastily puts his hand into a ball and whips it aimlessly. It hits something-- and the weight on top of him shoves off. The room felt hot, but now it makes goosebumps on his skin. His shirt was thrown somewhere on the floor, while pants are unbuckled and zipped off.

 

The next few minutes are a mad scramble. Put the shorts back on, find his shirt. He doesn’t bother trying to put the belt back on, with his shaky hands it’s futile.

 

He starts to leave, and runs his mouth. Whatever he does say, it’s the wrong thing to say. His haze breaks when a clock misses his shoulder.

 

“Take that back!”

  
  
_“You’re just like your mother.”_

 

Fuck, Keith said that. His boyfriend’s unmentionables. But this is payback.

 

“You are,” Keith says back, voice cracking. “You’re _just_ like her!” The look he gets in response sends him a flashing red warning sign. His cheek burns, his neck aches from bite marks and there’s an unscratchable itch settled somewhere right under his skin. Work. He has to go to work. It’s a busy day.

 

Shoes. His black boots. The ones that Pidge made a crack about. By the entryway. If he puts them on, he can leave and go to work. That’s where he breaks away and heads to and it’s halfway through the living room that a brutal force hits the back of his head and sends him to the carpet. He curses while instinctively pressing a hand to his head and trying to ignore the light headed side effect. Something hard pushes him back to the floor when he tries to get onto his knees and hands to stand up. He gasps, the downward force doesn’t let up so he can take in more air.

 

It lets up, he finally inhales and lets out a sharp cry when his hair is ripped back without warning. He’s brought to his knees and a fist clocks the left side of his forehead. While he tries to grasp at the hands holding his hair with his to escape another punch hits the corner of his eye. Before another punch gets thrown, he presses his nails into the hands as firmly as he can. His boyfriend lets him go, and Keith falls back onto his knees and hands. The pain’s too much to  bear, trying to stand is futile. Instead of trying to run, his instinct tells him to try and defend himself. He bunkers down into a ball and covers his face with his hands.

 

A blunt kick knocks him sideways. It’s not the sole kick. Another one, stronger this time, hits his chest and he forgets out to breathe. It happens again, and again, and again, and suddenly there isn’t that moment of relief in between kicks. His chest and abdomen burn in a way he’s never felt before. It chokes him. When he opens his eyes and can barely see anything, it dawns on him that he may never see Black again.

 

If someone’s talking, he can’t acknowledge it. But his own mouth is moving too. This was a bad idea. It hurts worse than the metal chair. He’s an idiot, thinking that he could change, or that they would change.

 

It’s content, warm nothingness that heads to a welcomed drowsy state.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But for real... season 8 who? Never heard of her.


	8. Say I'm a martyr, charge that to my ego. I just want to see all the lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting!!
> 
> tw: dv implied!

He feels his eyelids being used as a shield against a bright, cool light. So he’s not dead, Keith figures. There’s something warm and tight wrapped around one of his hands. It’s comforting, especially when it squeezes. It must be another hand. Besides his hands, and a strange ache on the back of his skull, the rest of him is numb. Like it was amputated past his neck. Painkillers. They, whoever ‘they’ are, must have pumped him full of them. That’s not good, they take away physical pain, and cover up emotional pain. He hates them for that. Life-ruiners should be their official names, poison should be their street name.

hse 

His jaw is tight. Clearly, his body isn’t quite healed enough to speak. But he tries anyway, muttering out a groan. A chair moves, the hand around his tightens more. It motivates him to try and wake up. His eyelids flutter open for a moment, then sink back down. They’re heavier than he thought they were. Maybe he’s in a coma and they, who must be a doctor, are trying to prevent that.

 

But, he tries again. It’s a gift, and a curse, his stubbornness. Finally, his dull eyes peak open. A strange vignette surrounds the middle of his vision. The strong light work against the sensitivity of his eyes. After more attempts, he gets them to stay open. Everything still looks like a blur. He decides to move his head as much as he can. Something heavy is straining his neck.

 

Thick silver hair, the first thing he picks up. A voice with an accent says his name. Sharp features. Eyes that lately, haven’t shown the same bite that they used to have.

 

Keith tries to swallow to cut back the cotton feeling in his mouth. Lotor raises an eyebrow, he looks annoyed. Then, Keith wonders through his haze. Why is he here? He wants to ask, but asking might put him in a worse mood.

 

“You.” He still can’t find his voice, whatever he croaks out sounds gravelly.

 

“It’s half past four in the afternoon,” Lotor says, his voice leveled. Ah. He’s been asleep for a while. The smell of the room, a mix of antiseptic, sick and the lingering scent of bland hospital food tells him that he must in one. He doesn’t remember getting here. But, he’s late for work. Today is a busy day, he’s already missed so much. And Black, Black’s with Shiro. Shiro, his coworker, and so is Pidge, and Hunk, and Kolivan. Allura, he contemplates whether she works there, or not. He misses her. Oh, his boyfriend. Did he come too, the only voice he’s heard so far is Lotor’s. Why is he in a hospital bed, in the first place? Did he get the flu, or get into a car crash?

 

“Work,” he says, trying to raise the pitch of the word to make it come out as a question. Lotor squints his eyes, growing more irritable.

 

“Work,” Lotor groans. “You almost died, and the first thing you think of is work?” A scolding. So, that means he must have done something dumb to end up here. So what did he do wrong, he wants to ask. But his body wants to cut him off and sleep more.

 

“You’re an idiot,” he says next. I mean, Keith already knows that. Old news. “A lucky idiot.” Lotor hasn’t let go of his hand yet.

  
  
“Your emergency contact is being held in custody. I called your workplace. I waited until they moved you from ICU,” Lotor sighs heavily. He is looking at Keith. Keith wordlessly prays it wasn’t Pidge. Can’t be Pidge. Or Kolivan, who will make this into a bigger deal than it actually is. He’s sure that he’ll be released later today, or tomorrow morning. Whatever happened, it probably isn’t a big deal. He furrows his eyebrows, trying to figure out what the hell ICU means.

 

“The last thing I want to deal with, is your crying co-workers. They didn’t even find you,” Keith’s trying to figure out why Lotor’s voice shakes a tiny bit at the end. “I thought you were dead.” Lotor laughs, it’s bitter. “I almost killed for you.”

 

“Why?” Keith croaks. Lotor lets go of his hand, and places it lightly on the side of Keith’s face. It brings a dull ache that makes his eye twitch. He doesn’t answer.

 

“Someone will be here soon. Rest. I’ll contact you. Until I do, pretend that I don’t exist. That’s an order. Insubordination will lead to worse injuries than this.” That’s the side of Lotor that Keith’s familiar with. For some strange reason, it’s more comforting than anything else he’s been doing.

 

Too tired to answer back, Keith nods as best as he can. He doesn’t think he can keep his eyes open much longer. Lotor must notice that, and decide that’s his cue to leave. He needs to leave. Yes, Lotor must. Those two worlds of his can never meet, not even glance at each other.

 

He hears the click of Lotor’s shoes walk away. A door opens, and then shuts. Now, he’s by himself. He misses his hand being held. Lotor holding it felt foreign, but it was an earnest attempt to comfort him. He’s mildly sad that his boyfriend isn’t here. Who’s his emergency contact again, and, custody, what is a custody, again? He’ll have to ask the next visitor.

 

\--------------

 

The next time he wakes, there’s slight pain all over his body. It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. Strong lights, a neck brace, a strange soreness in the inside of his elbow, and a light blanket that provides very little warmth. Hospital. Right. He has half a mind to take that IV out of his arm. Just pull it out. Oh, he hopes it’s on his arm that doesn’t have his sleeve, but he doesn’t remember which arm that is. He hates the IV. It’s letting painkillers pump into him. He hates painkillers.

 

Oh, his hand is being held again. That’s nice. Even if it’s Lotor’s hand again, it’s comforting. The last thing he doesn’t wants are these painkillers. The second to last thing he doesn’t want is to be alone.

 

“Keith?” The voice is light. The room is less blurred when he opens his eyes, slightly off-centered, but he can move his head more freely. The back of his eyes are sore. He notices another IV coming out of his other arm for water. It must mean he slept for a long time.

 

Not Kolivan, not Hunk. Shiro? Shiro doesn’t wear big, round glasses.

 

“Pidge,” Keith croaks, his throat is cooperating with him more this time. She’s sitting right beside him. He gets a better look at her face, a red nose, and a puffy red face. He’d smile and tease her if he had the energy or the ability to smile. Hah, figures that they’d both be ugly criers. She’s crouched over and supporting herself on her elbows on Keith’s bed. Pidge holds his hand with both of hers and brings them up to her forehead. More sniffles.

 

“You’re awake.” She’s shaky. “Kolivan just left, Shiro’s down in the cafeteria, and Hunk’s stress baking at his home.”

  
  
“Work is not…” His mouth feels like cotton and tastes like pennies.

  
  
“No,” Pidge shakes her head. “It’s been closed.”

 

“For..?”

  
  
“Almost two days,” Pidge sniffles again. Keith’s eyes widen.

 

“Go to work,” Keith gasps. “Okay, I’m okay.” Pidge shakes her head.

 

“You almost died,” she says, holding back tears. “You look like it too.”

  
  
“Rude,” Keith mutters. He seems her valiant attempt to smile and it makes his heart ache.

 

“It’s true,” Tears roll down her cheeks. “I need to call Kolivan.” She uses the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe her tears. “He hasn’t left your side the whole time. We finally convinced him to go home, and rest. After all, these chairs aren’t very comfortable.”

  
  
“Bad for an old geezer’s back.” He’s touched by that, but also feels incredibly guilty. This has affected everyone.

 

He wants to sit up so fucking badly.

 

“Hold on,” Pidge stands up and leans over Keith. “There’s a button here for inclining the bed.” She holds it down, and from the sound it makes, Keith can tell that this bed might be at least half his age. “That good?” She asks when he’s slightly elevated. It kinda isn’t, he wants to be elevated higher. That soreness at the back of his head says otherwise. He nods.

 

“Perfect.” Keith assures. She sighs in relief and returns to her chair.

 

“I wanna go home,” he complains. The bed isn’t comfortable. “When can we go?”

 

Pidge frowns. “Maybe in two days.” Keith opens his mouth in surprise. “Maybe longer.” She grimaces.

  
  
“Let’s break out, Pigeon,” Keith says, growing groggy. “We’ll, we’ll go somewhere they’ll never check.”

  
  
“What’s this about breaking out?” Shiro says while coming into the room. Keith moves his eyes to see him. He looks tired. They both do.

  
  
“Pidge and I, we’re gonna escape.” Ugh, he feels his words starting to slur.

 

“Hey,” Pidge puts her hands up. “I didn’t agree to your mission.” Keith huffs.

 

“You’ll be discharged soon enough,” Shiro says, sitting across from Pidge. “How are you feeling? Feeling any pain?”

 

Keith shakes his head. “Just numbness, the back of my head hurts a little.”

 

“They almost had to operate on you to make room for swelling,” Shiro says. “You had a pretty bad concussion.”

 

“What else?”

  
  
“Uhh,” Pidge starts. “A broken rib. A few others are bruised, right?” Shiro nods.

 

“Heavy bruising on your chest, and on your face. The doctor will come in shortly, to tell you more.”

  
  
“I want this neck brace off,” Keith complains. Pidge sighs.

 

“It’s on for a reason,” she says. Shiro nods in agreement.

 

“It’ll come off soon, Keith.” Keith groans, annoyed.

 

“Oh,” Keith perks up, forgetting about the dumb neck brace. “My boyfriend,” The atmosphere of the room changes, he’s too drugged to notice. “Where’s he? I’ve been out, he’s my emergency contact.” Keith frowns, squints in confusion. It isn’t how he’d like everyone to meet him, but, it’s inevitable. “Has he come by?” He pauses. Maybe he’s busy, they made up, though. “Where’s my phone? I should call. Not Lotor, though. Can’t call him.”

 

Pidge doesn’t say anything, she exchanges a panicked look with Shiro. Keith squints.

 

“What?” Keith asks. “Did something happen, did Kolivan scare him off?” He can easily see that happening.

 

“He’s…” Shiro looks nervous. It’s unlike him to be nervous. Usually, well, he at least seems to have his shit together. “Keith, do you remember why you’re here? Or did you forget?”

  
  
“Car accident, right?” Keith guesses. Neither one of them confirm it, he assumes that he’s wrong. “I...  can’t think of anything else. Don’t ‘member.”

 

“You two got into a fight,” Shiro carefully says. Oh.

 

God, must’ve been a bad one, if he’s this banged up. Shit. “He here too?”

  
  
“No, Keith,” Pidge interjects, loudly. “No, he’s not.”

  
  
“Pidge,” Shiro cuts her off, giving her a warning look.

 

Pidge glares back, undeterred. “He’s not allowed here.”

  
  
“So, I’m not allowed in his room either?”

  
  
“He’s not in here at all--”

  
  
“Pidge,” Shiro tries to reason. “Let’s wait, until he’s feeling a bit better.”

  
  
“Shiro.” His eyes do feel heavier. He doubts he’ll have an easy time falling asleep again if he doesn’t know. “It’s okay.”

 

“Alright, I’ll take over.” Shiro puts a supportive hand on Keith’s. “The fight was... one-sided.” Keith jolts up, hisses when it feels like something hit his head.

 

“Custody,” he gasps, lowering himself back down. “He was in, oh my God.” This can’t be true. Lotor. Lotor did this.

 

“A social worker will come around, probably tomorrow, to talk to you,” Shiro says.

 

“Fuck that,” Keith feels his eyes tear up.

  
  
Shiro squeezes his hand. “It’s going to be okay, Keith. You’re going to heal just fine.”

 

He won’t. He can’t. He’s overwhelmed, normally he compartmentalizes it. Stows it away, thinks it over, hold it in until it passes. In his drug haze, that isn’t feasible. So, he cries, and shows it all. Pidge leaves to call Kolivan. Shiro stays, and keeps holding his hand while telling him that it’ll all be okay.

 

\--------------

 

Lotor was right. He almost died, he is incredibly lucky. That’s what the doctor assigned to him informs him. After confirming that he was stable in ICU, he was moved to a normal hospital room. They didn’t put him into a man-made coma or anything, but he slept for a very long time.

 

His boyfriend must be out now. That must have been Lotor’s doing. Guys who are suspected of hurting their partners rarely receive anything more than a fine. Keith only remembers bits and pieces of his conversation with Lotor.

 

_“I almost killed for you.”_

  
  
He can’t figure out why Lotor would go to such an extreme, especially for someone like Keith.

 

What the fuck did he do, for this to happen? Did he say something, or do something he shouldn’t have done? Is this over Lance, or maybe Shiro? He really, truly does not remember. But he’s certain that he must have started it. He did something wrong.

 

\--------------

 

By the end of the day, he feels better. It took a little convincing, but the nurse assigned to taking care of him lowered his medicine dosage. And, after proving he can keep up with drinking fluids and eating, she removed that IV.

 

And that fucking neck brace.

 

Kolivan came back, his presence slightly quieted when Hunk showed up with chocolate chip cookies. Pidge falls asleep in her chair, using the edge of Keith’s bed as a pillow. He rests his hand on her head for a while.

 

When she wakes up, she and Hunk leave together. Kolivan leaves too, very hesitantly. Apparently, Shiro “knows a boss” here, probably a social worker, who lets him stay, “as long as I bring back a souvenir the next time I go to Japan.”

 

“You can go too,” Keith offers. Shiro winks.

 

“Special orders from Black,” Shiro says. “She wants me here, with you.”

 

“I miss her. Is she okay?”

 

“I fed her and turned on the TV. She’s excited to see you again.”

 

“Me too.”

 

They’ve been marathoning the Food Network for a while now. A Japanese episode of Iron Chef aired at one point, and they laughed hearing the ridiculous dubbing over the judges as they try the food. Food moans, and everything.

 

Shiro?” Keith thought about it earlier. He owes Shiro an apology, for making him break the news to Keith. After all, it’s his own fault that he’s here. No one else should have gotten involved, not even visiting him. Shiro, engrossed in the desert part of a Chopped episode, looks his way.

 

“I’m sorry,” Keith says. “For not telling you. I didn’t-- I, I didn’t want to be defined by this. I didn’t want this to be an issue between us. And I couldn’t... Pidge cried for me. When she found out. Hunk had to calm her down. And I left, without saying anything. It changed our friendship. I was afraid that the same thing would happen to us.” he sighs. Eyes watery.

 

“I wanted a normal friendship.” his breathing hitches. “This is why Lance and I had a falling out. I hurt him so badly. And Pidge, and Hunk, God, and Kolivan.”

  
  
“Keith, Keith, breathe a little.” Shiro puts his hand on top of Keith’s. “You’re yelling.”

  
  
“I’m so sorry,” he sniffs, trying to keep those tears from falling. The pain meds hinder his ability to hold back. “I used you, I used you.”

  
  
“Keith, you didn’t.” Shiro shakes his head.

  
  
“I did, and I-- I deserved this.”

  
  
“You didn’t deserve any of this.” Shiro says firmly.

  
  
“I’m a bad person,” he sniffles again. “I hurt people. I don’t deserve any of you. Kolivan stayed with me-- stayed the whole night-- for _me_. Me, I’m an asshole to him!”

  
  
“Bad people don’t say they’re bad people.” Shiro smiles. “You’re one of the nicest, and one of the most hard-working person that I know.”

  
  
Keith tries to shake his head. “I lied to you.”

  
  
“I don’t hold it against you. I get it. I do,” Shiro frowns, he looks regretful. “I wish I could have helped you more.”

  
  
“You let me stay with you, but the whole time,” He tries to breathe but ends up letting out a sob. “I wanted to go back. I wanted to go back. And now I’m, I’m--”

  
  
“Safe,” Shiro finishes. “And, in the best place you can be in right now.”

  
  
His shoulders tremble, and he fights back tears. He’s so tired. The lights hurt his eyes, the noise from the television make his ears sore. Shut-eye. He needs to go to sleep for a while, and forget about all of this until he wakes again. He dreads waking up.

 

“Keith? You with me?” He must have zoned out. Shiro’s hand on his squeezes. There are tears rolling off of his face and plopping onto his hospital gown. “Want to go to sleep?”

  
  
“I’m sorry,” Keith says again. “I feel so bad.”

 

“We’re all happy to help. I promise.”

 

\--------------

 

Maybe reducing his pain medication wasn’t that great of an idea. The following morning, he feels heavy, and a dull ache that’s affecting his entire front torso. Shiro leaves right before the nurses finally lets Keith take a shower. The bruising stuns him. He stares at the marks for so long, a nurse knocks on the door to check if he’s okay. They’re almost black in some sports, purple in others, and the skin that isn’t either color is an ill-looking yellow color. His face isn’t much better. It’s incredible that nothing on his face is broken. Both of his eyes are black, there’s bump on the top of his forehead.

 

He looks fucking awful, and self-conscious. And ashamed, because the person he wants comfort from the most is legally not allowed to see him.

 

After his shower, he does feel better. But not enough for the first guest he gets in the morning. She’s short and a little chubby, with wide frame glasses and short brown hair. Her smile is bright. Whatever her motives are, they seem to be from a good place. Keith scoots back a little in his hospital bed anyway. He knows why she’s here, he doesn’t know how the hospital came to this suspicion. It’s not a man beating a woman up, it’s a man versus another man. It’s not like this was one-sided, either. They’re all wrong about that. She waves and says good morning, and points to the chair besides Keith’s bed.

 

“Can I sit?” Her eyes look inviting. Keith nods a little without reaffirming with a yes. She sits down next to him, and crosses her legs. There’s a clipboard in her hand that she puts on her thighs.

 

“Hello, Keith, is it?” He nods once more, silent. “It’s nice to meet you, Keith. My name is Linda, and I’m a social worker here. How are you doing?”

  
  
Maybe this is the woman that Shiro knows, who let Shiro stay. He shouldn’t be mean to her, then. If Shiro likes her, she’s probably okay then. “Fine.” He bites back a sarcastic answer. “How are you.”

  
  
“I’m glad to hear that, I’m also doing well today.” She rearranges her clipboard, and grabs the pen from behind her ear.

 

“I wanted to ask you a few questions today, if you don’t mind.”

  
  
He feels cornered, throat dry. If he was sitting in a chair, his leg would be bouncing.

 

“Sure.”

 

“We know that many people experience problems in intimate relationships, which can result in health problems...” she trails off for a moment, observing Keith’s reaction. He tries his best to look calm, neutral.

 

“So, we ask all patients this question. Are you in a relationship with someone who threatens to, or has hurt you in any way?”

 

“That’s none of your business,” he says immediately, tight-lipped. The social worker, what was her name again, backs off. He feels dizzy. Lindsay? Louise? The blood in his ears makes him feel like there’s cotton balls shoved into them. He's in disarray. He wants her out.

 

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she says. “I’m concerned about how you got these injuries.” It bothers him that she sounds genuinely concerned. “Did someone do this to you?”

 

It’s straightforward, and general. From his injuries, it’s glaringly obvious that he didn’t do this to himself. He nods and stutters before saying,“Y-yes.” Not Lee, Lucy? Lydia? The social worker clicks her pen and scribbles something down.

  
  
“Sometimes, when we see injuries or symptoms like yours, it’s from when a patient has been hurt by their partner.”

  
  
Lillian?

 

“Has this happened to you?”

 

He turns his head, unable to answer with anything other than silence. He hears her pen click again, she must have given up. He tries to sigh in relief.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says. Keith turns back again, she puts the pen back behind her ear. “We don’t have to continue.” For some reason, she smiles again. A real smile. If he was in her shoes, he’d be pissed.

 

“If this were ever to happen to you, would you know where to go for help?”

 

“I have someone,” he reassures halfheartedly.

  
  
“Glad to hear that.” She smiles. She unclips something from her clipboard. A light purple half-sheet.

 

“I have more information about programs we have in the city, and a few hotlines. Would you like one?”

  
  
It’ll be rude not to take one. He already shut her down. He’s being rude and uncooperative.

 

… It’s also admitting that his situation relates to what’s on this fucking paper.

 

“Sure.” He takes it from her hand. That’s her cue and she sits up, brushing her skirt down to get some of the wrinkles out.

 

“It was nice talking to you, Keith. If you want to meet with me again, just let one of the nurses know.”

 

Linda.

 

Her name is Linda.

 

“Thank you,” he says. Sorry, he wants to add. She walks out, gently shutting the door behind her. Before she leaves, she waves goodbye.

 

He frowns, looking at the paper in his hands. Holding it feels like he’s breaking some sort of rule. But, if he crinkles it up into a ball or rip it apart, he’ll feel guilty for wasting Linda’s time. He leans forward and puts it on the chair she was sitting on.

 

Tired. He’s so tired, and it’s not even noon.

 

\--------------

 

Someone in a black suit stops by, after the social worker. He talks about possibly pressing charges. If Keith talks to the social worker, they can probably work something out. Get a judge ruling. Keep Keith safe.

 

Keith shakes his head to decline, and asks him to leave as politely as he can.

 

\--------------

 

Flowers arrive. A bouquet of white tulips and soft pink carnations. He asks the nurse if she has a vase he can put them in.

 

\--------------

 

After a small nap, he’s half awake when someone knocks. Most people ask if they can come in. But Lance just waltzes right in after a few seconds, like he owns the place.

 

“You have bad timing.” Keith groans. Lance raises an eyebrow instead of asking why.

  
  
“Social worker.” Keith stretches. The bed makes his back tense. “Then a fucking cop,” he sighs. Are you next?”

  
  
“Nope,” Lance says after rolling his eyes. “Just here to visit a friend of mine. Have you seen him?”

  
  
“He’s down the hall,” Keith kindly lets him know, pointing at the door. “You have the wrong room.”

  
  
“Well, since I’m here,“ Lance plops down in the chair. “Might as well say hi. You leaving soon?”

 

“They’re discharging me tomorrow.”

  
  
“Going back to Shiro’s?”

  
  
Keith shakes his head. “Just to get Black. Then, I’m going home.”

 

“You’re not leaving him,” Lance deadpans. He needs to get used to this reaction, Lance is the first person that Keith has told. Everyone must be assuming that he’s going back to Shiro’s. Including Shiro. None of this will go well. Everyone will be upset. Angry. Disappointed.

  
  
“I want to make this work,” he says. He has a new resolution, he’ll change. To stop this from happening again. It’s the most sensible option. Besides, he can still talk to Lance, he’ll just memorize Lance’s number and hide it. Then, he stubbornly adds, “I already made up my mind.”

 

“Well.” Lance exhales. He looks shocked.

  
  
“I don’t want to hear it, Lance,” he warns, bristled, claws out.

  
  
“Well you are!” Lance counters with a booming voice. It hurts his ears. “That’s a terrible idea, and you know I’m right.”

  
  
Keith crosses his arms and huffs. Next time, he’ll lock the door. “Shut up.”

 

“Why? That’s all I ask. Why him?” Lance spots the bouquet and his mouth opens. Keith’s breath hitches, and he freezes like a criminal surrounded by police.

 

“He sent you flowers.” The heat in Lance’s voice dampens. “He almost killed you, and he sends you... flowers?” It’s less of judging Keith’s character, and more of disgust towards his boyfriend. But he takes it personally. His teeth ache from how tight his jaw is. The room shakes a little, either from the vertigo or the trembling through his chest. No one gets it. No one.

  
  
“You’ve always had a family,” Keith says. “I didn’t. The only person I had was him. He was my everything..” He can’t bring himself to look at Lance again. The one thing he wants the most is isolation. Lance exhales again, loss for words. Their silence is awkward. It mimics a similar exchange they had, years ago. Except this time, Lance doesn’t look very mad. Just, sad.

 

Lance speaks up first, clearing his throat.

 

“I’m sorry. I… I want you to be happy,” Lance sighs. “We all do.”

  
  
Keith shrugs. “I am happy,” he says, like it’s obvious.

  
  
He frowns at Keith. He doesn’t buy it. Keith kinda doesn’t, either. “You’re happy?” Lance says in disbelief.

  
  
“Of course,” Keith nods, trying to convince both him and Lance. “I don’t have any serious complications, and he apologized--”

 

Lance interrupts. “With flowers--” And Keith’s itching for an argument.

  
  
Another knock interrupts their conversation. They both pause, and look towards the door. It’s Shiro, carrying a small box of brownies. Shit.

 

“Lance,” Shiro waves. “It’s been a while. Causing trouble here?”

 

Lance doesn’t respond right away. He looks at Keith, bites his lower lip, and Keith wonders if this is a bad idea. As bad as he’s making it out to be. Lance looks so upset, his eyes are shiny.

 

“A little bit,” Lance says, still looking at Keith. Keith tries to ignore it, looks down at his lap. “... I’ll leave you two alone. Keith?”

 

Keith looks up.

 

“Get better soon, I’ll stop by sometime when you’re at work.” Keith nods, wordlessly.

 

“Good to see you too, Shiro. Keep him company,” Lance smiles. It’s a sad smile.

 

“Of course, I’ll see you sometime.”

 

Lance leaves, and a few seconds later, Shiro asks, “Did something happen...?”

 

Keith presses his lips into a thin line. But he shakes his head.

 

“He’s very... high energy,” Keith sighs. “I’m tired after just a few minutes.”

  
  
“Oh, should I come back, some other time?”

  
  
“Oh, no. No, stay,” Keith reaches forward and pats the chair. “I know it’s a decent drive from your place.”

 

“I don’t care about the drive.” He looks over Keith. “You’re looking good. How are you feeling?”

  
  
The social worker asked the same thing. Keith smiles.

 

“Instead of a truck, it feels like I got ran over by a small car. Maybe a Prius?”

 

“Or a Volkswagen beetle?” Shiro says, sitting down. “I actually had one of those, for my first car. It was bright red. My mom called it Ladybug, and didn’t let me drive it until I put black polka dots on the roof.”

 

Keith laughs. He can perfectly picture Shiro struggling to get his legs underneath the driver’s side of the beetle. It looks ridiculous. “How did you fit into one of those?”

  
  
“Patience. Acceptance. And… ibuprofen. For when I’d go over a pothole and my head would slam into the roof every time.”

  
  
Keith grins. “My head feels like that.” Unfortunately, Shiro also turns his attention to the bouquet. Maybe he shouldn’t have accepted them. It makes sense, that people would be drawn to them. They’re so pretty, they cut through the drab of his hospital room.

 

“Pretty." He reaches his hand out to lightly stroke one of the pedals. Shiro keeps his eyes on them. “Did Lance drop them off? He doesn’t seem like the flower type.”

  
  
“They’re from my boyfriend.” No point in lying.

 

Shiro frowns, still looking at the bouquet. “That doesn’t seem like a very fair apology.”

  
  
Keith clenches his fists, and looks down. “Lance, he called me easy,” Keith says. His chest feels heated.

  
  
Shiro sighs, and moves his head to look at Keith. That seems to have troubled him as well. “You aren’t easy.” Shiro wants to say more, Keith can just feel it. He’s holding back.

  
  
“Just...” Keith sighs in defeat. He braces himself. “Just say it.”

  
  
Shiro removes his hand from the flowers. “I think you’re making a mistake by accepting these.”

  
  
“That’s. No, no. It’s not the only thing. He promised, that he’s only to get clean this time.”

  
  
“Has he promised you this before?”

  
  
“Yes. But this time,” Keith feels heat on his face. He must sound ridiculous. “This time, it’s different. I can feel it, I just know.”

  
  
“It won’t be different.”

  
  
“I know him more than anyone,” Keith clarifies. “This is different. He’ll change for me.”

  
  
“Keith... they don’t change.” He looks pained. “There’s no coming back after something like this.”

  
  
“You know from experience,” Keith assumes, curtly.

  
  
“Yes,” Shiro answers cautiously. Keith knows that he’s aware of Keith’s general attitude about social workers. “As a case manager, I have seen many.”

  
  
“I’m different,” Keith shrugs. ‘I’m not like those other people. I’m not weak. I’m strong. I can handle this.”

  
  
Shiro presses his lips into a hard line, and points at Keith. “Is this handling it?” He says, motioning to the injuries donned on Keith’s skin. Keith’s mouth is dry, he doesn’t say anything.

  
  
“Answer my question,” Shiro says, very seriously. “Is this handling it?” He’s never seen Shiro this direct before. “Going to ICU, then staying here for a couple of days?”

  
  
Keith turns around, and puts a hand on his chest. “I’m getting better, aren’t I?” He exclaims.

  
  
“You’re healing just fine, but you shouldn’t have to be healing.” Shiro puts his hand on Keith’s forearm. “You shouldn’t be here. If he loved you, you wouldn’t be here.”

  
  
“He does love me.” Keith moves his arm away from Shiro’s hand.

  
  
“This…,” Shiro shakes his head. “Is this love?”

 

Keith’s mind goes blank. Fuck. No, yes? Yes, it has to be. A fucked up love, but it's love.

  
  
“I. I started it,” He says quickly. “I said something I shouldn’t have said, and then, I hit him.”

  
  
“And he ended it? He ended it by almost killing you?”  Keith doesn’t respond. His lip shakes. He wants to disappear. He knew this was going to happen, he knew people were going to get angry at him. It’s well-deserved.

 

“I’m not mad about you not telling me,” Shiro clarifies. “I’m mad at how he’s treating you. And I’m upset, because I feel like you don’t see your self-worth. And, I’m… I’m scared. We all are.”

 

That’s not true. He does have self-worth. He.. does. He does. Yeah. Of course he does. He doesn’t like this, this reminds him of his time with Linda. He’s not a charity case. He isn’t a victim. He doesn’t need all of these interrogations. Doesn’t want them. Won’t hear them anymore.

 

“Is this what you used to do?” Keith crosses his arms. ” Am I-- I’m just one of your patients, aren’t I, Shiro?”

  
  
“Patient.” Shiro says back, slowly, stunned.

  
  
Keith nods.

 

“Do you think I’m not being insincere, Keith?” There’s a hurt look on his face, and Keith realizes that, shit, he went too far. That wasn’t fair. This isn’t what friends do.

  
  
“No, no--” he backtracks. “That’s not it. How can I be anything else to you?” Keith explaims, his voice is hoarse. Shiro’s eyes soften. “All I do is take. Take take take. I never give. I’m sorry. I am, you aren’t-- I know that. A social worker came by this morning. Then a cop, then Lance. No, I’m just making excuses. God!” He just lets the fucking tears follow. Fuck it.

 

“Let me tell you something, Shiro--” He doesn’t bother to wipe his tears away. “It’s not all bad, and that’s what no one gets. No one! They don’t know, they don’t know that most of my favorite memories are with him, are because of him. He’s not a monster.” Keith kneels over and puts his face in his hands. “He’s like me, we’ve both been through hell. I love him, I really do.”

 

He feels a hand on top of his hair. Keith cries again.

 

“Do you want me to stay the night again?” Shiro asks quietly. Keith looks up, and wipes his eyes with his hospital gown. He nods quickly, cheeks red from shame. He feels like a child.

 

“I’ll have to go home for a sec, to get some things. But I’ll come back. I promise I’ll come back, okay?”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Linda likes you,” Shiro smiles. Ah, Keith figured. “Do you want me to say anything to Black?”

 

Keith sniffles. “Tell her I love her.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost halfway done!!! Thank you so much for reading.


	9. Venus, planet of love, was destroyed by global warming, did it's people want too much?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019!! Sorry for the late update, and thank you for your patience!! I hope you like it! Sorry for tense/spelling errors!!!!!

Kolivan calls Keith when he’s starting to slowly thaw from the winter. Part of their ceiling has suffered from the melting snow and after fixing it, he’s occupied with painting over the brown stain it left.

 

Every time he see’s Kolivan’s number buzzing on his phone, he tells himself to brace himself. Over time, Kolivan has asked them less and less, however he still tries to interrogate Keith every other call. Despite the annoyance, Keith presses the green call button every time, otherwise Kolivan might pay him a visit to make sure he’s still breathing. It still perplexes Keith that Kolivan hasn’t given up on him and called it quits.

 

“Hey,” Keith greets, trying to sound at least a little welcoming. “Do you need something?”

 

He pinches himself while Kolivan offers him a position at a tattoo parlor. If only his eyebrows could go higher. Maybe he doesn’t know Kolivan as well as he thinks he does.

 

“You want me? Me?”

  
  
“You don’t want to?” Kolivan asks over the phone.

  
  
“I don’t know anything about tattoos, or piercings,” Keith says, frowning.  

 

“You’re intelligent,” Kolivan says, nonchalantly. “You’ll learn quickly. And, I’ve seen your art before. You have what it takes.”

 

His cheeks turn a little red at the list of praises. He hasn’t heard a compliment about himself for quite some time, it sounds unnatural. Especially coming from Kolivan.

 

“There’s a veteran artist that can teach you,” Kolivan explains. “I have a license, I can help with piercings.”

 

Keith finds a spot on the sofa to plop down on, crossing his lips and slouching forward. “Do I need to go back to school?” He can’t afford it.

 

“Our state doesn’t require licenses, only a blood pathogen test. But, I’d like you to have the equivalent of one required in other states.”

 

It sounds incredibly difficult. Keith bites his lip, uncertain.

 

“Why are you coming to me?” Keith asks, frankly. They’ve never been close, Keith scorned any sort of friendship Kolivan laid out. Surely, this is because of a lack of available candidates to fill in “Am I your last resort?”  
  
“You’re my first pick.”

 

“Oh.” The red returns on his face. The hand that isn’t holding his phone squeezes. “You’ve never striked me as the kind of guy who owns a tattoo shop. I didn’t know you had a license.”

 

“I worked temporarily in another state. The previous owner was a late close friend. He wanted me to take over the business.”  
  
“And you agreed, just like that?”

 

“I declined,” Kolivan explains. Keith tilts his head. “The artist there convinced me after the burial.” Huh. The burial of a late close friend. Not totally out-of-the-blue, Kolivan wasn’t a spring chicken anymore. He lost a close friend. Keith wonders if Kolivan needed support at that time, if that role needed to be filled by the man he took in.   
  
“He guilt-tripped you,” Keith says.

 

“Something like that,” Kolivan admits. “He’s close to retiring, his hands are starting to shake.”

 

Keith presses his lips together. Declining will make him feel guilt. He doesn’t allow Kolivan to be anything more than an estranged family member. Their familial relationship is a joke. He wants to turn it down. Working with Kolivan doesn’t necessarily sound like a nightmare, but it’d be awkward and uncomfortable, and Keith’s not sure if they’d improve and get closer.

 

But as of right now, the cut he got from forcing Lance and instigating fights has trapped into something like a bell jar, bleeding out and the blood unable to seep out. He’s going to drown in it.

 

“I’ll do it,” Keith agrees, anxiety brewing from agreeing to face the unknown. It dawns on him, he remembers the scars on both of his arms and one of his legs. “I’ve been meaning to get some skin covered up. Maybe… it could be fun.”

 

\--------------------------

 

He’s excited to be discharged the next day, but the doctor smiles and says that they want him to stay for another night.

 

“Brain swelling hasn’t gone down.” Keith sighs, picking at the bland hospital food. “At least, not as much as they wanted.”

 

“You look like you’re ready to sneak out,” Shiro jokes.

 

“I will, with Pidge’s help,” Keith says. Shiro gives him a strange look and glances at Pidge, who’s sitting beside Keith in his hospital bed. She gets away with it, with her small size.

 

“We talked in secret,” she explains. “I’m gonna bust him out.”

 

He returns to Keith’s slightly glossy eyes. Shiro’s lip twitch. “You need help walking to the bathroom and back because of the vertigo.”

 

Pidge shrugs, and Keith grins cockily. “Wheelchair style,” he says. “It’s a secret though, you can’t tell anyone, especially Lindsay.”

 

“Linda?”

 

“Yeah, her,” his words briefly started to slur a little while after Pidge joined. He’s due for a nap.

 

“Is it still a secret if I know?” Shiro asks. Keith eyes him up and down in scrutiny.

 

“I didn’t take you as a snitch, Shiro.”

 

“Linda will get mad if I let you escape.”

 

“We’ll be back before dinner,” Pidge says. “You know Shiro, they’ll give you a cot. You’re going to fuse to that chair.” She turns to Keith. “You’re turning Shiro into a chair.”

 

“I would have offered half of my side, but you’re too big.” Keith frowns, looking at Shiro.

 

“And another episode of Chopped?” she sighs, bumping her knee against Keith’s. “They have to run out of them eventually.”

 

“It’s a marathon,” Keith shrugs. “It’s easy for my scatterbrain to pay attention to. And Guy Fieri is too loud right now.”

 

“Same format,” she nods. “Makes sense.”

 

“Is the parlor still closed?” he asks, and she nods again. He frowns. “It shouldn’t be, I’m fine. I’m healing just fine.”

 

“Keith,” Pidge interjects. “You’re not the only one healing.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Shiro says. Pidge still doesn’t know that Kolivan is driving him home tomorrow. He doesn’t know when to break the news, he’s not ready. He’s never ready.

 

Shiro excuses himself after another episode, Keith and Pidge kick him out when he stretches and they all hear a sickening back crack.

 

“Shiro really goes above and beyond for you,” Pidge says, a little engrossed in how in the hell someone can make an appetizer with granola, canned octopus tentacles and frozen bananas. It comes off as implying something else.

 

“He told me that he’s stayed longer with kids,” Keith says, missing the subtext thanks to oxycodone.

 

“He has, once it was three nights. Matt tried to convince Shiro to just foster the kid with intent to adopt. He was a cute kid. ”

 

“He’ll be a good dad.”

 

Pidge nods in agreement. “The mom got clean so she got custody back.”

 

“I’m jealous,” Keith says, breathing out a little laugh. Pidge turns her head to face him.

 

“Is that why you’re here?”

 

Keith shrugs. “A little bit. I’m” he grabs his bedsheets and squeezes them while taking a breath in. “I’m going back to my place, Pidge,” Keith says.

 

The sound of a contestant venting about something about someone else’s dish fills in a gap of silence. Keith anticipates a loud response, and Pidge soaking the information in.

 

“I answered that phone call, you know,” she says. Keith turns his head away from him. “I was so scared, we all were. I thought that it was your partner who called, so I chewed him out before he could explain himself.

 

Interesting. He wonders how Lotor took it. Lotor did seem irritable, from what he remembers. Everything else involving their interaction is blurry, and he has no motivation to try and fill in the blanks.

 

“I don’t want to get another phone call,” she says. “Keith, look at me.”

 

“I can’t,” Keith shakes his head as best as he can. Guilt eats him. “I’m so sorry.” He feels a hand on his shoulder.

 

“We all had a big sit-down yesterday,” she informs him, and that makes him turn his head back to her.

 

“Are you going to have an intervention for me?” he asks in a small voice. Pidge doesn’t respond to his question, and he asks again.

 

“I really wish I could kidnap you,” Pidge says in response without answering his question, eyes starting to water.

 

He expected an angry outburst from Pidge, a response that mimics the one she had the first time she saw a bruise on him that didn’t need an explanation to tell her where it came from. This one is sorrowful.   


“I’m sorry,” he says again in vain.

 

After a minute or two, she says to him, “I won’t ever give up on you, family doesn’t give up on family.”

 

I don’t deserve it, he wants to counter, it’s on the tip of his tongue.

 

“We’ve all been accepting that this is what it is, and I’m not doing that anymore. I’ll try to convince you every single time.” she says. “I have hope,” she adds, softly.

 

“Any one of us will take you in, so when you’re ready to leave, we’ll all be here to help.”

 

“What if I don’t deserve it,” Keith asks. Pidge grabs his cheek and pulls it.

 

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” she says snarkily, using her other hand to push her glasses up. He won’t argue back, there’s something in his heart that’s unfamiliar, and it makes his shoulders release their tension.

 

It seems like he’s been in the hospital for months the following day. With the IV out and a prescription in his hand, D-day is finally here. His rib, while still uncomfortable, is set and feels bearable. The social worker comes again, and he brushes her off again, but he smiles a little bit and waves back when she excuses herself.

 

Shiro visits one more time and leaves after a very careful hug, and a promise to take several pictures of Black to show him later. They work it out that Keith will go and get her tomorrow.

 

The flowers, while they still look presentable, look like they’ve started to wilt already. He finds it fair, they’ve completed their job. They don’t have a purpose anymore. Still, even while they wilt, they’ve beautiful. A bouquet of forgiveness, and love.

 

He plucks some of the flowers to save, to press them later.

 

Kolivan fulfills his promise and helps him get his things to leave. The car ride home with Kolivan is more than awkward, almost unbearable, but he stays quiet and turns the radio on as soon as Kolivan starts the engine. He still feels a little bit of motion sickness from Kolivan’s easy driving. Fortunately, or many not, Kolivan doesn’t try to say anything, to get him to stay with someone else. That’s precisely why he asked Kolivan to take him. Kolivan has feelings, but he controls them. He doesn’t let them take over, Keith has only seen him lose his cool a few times. And they’ve mostly been because of him. Now they’re quiet, but Kolivan looks like he’s going back and forth on whether or to say anything.

 

“You look like you have something to say,” Keith says. It hasn’t been just the two of them for some time, the air tense with the air conditioner blowing cool hair that moves his hair.

 

“I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say,” Kolivan warns.

 

“Everyone else has asked me to leave, and you’re driving me home.” Keith observes, giving permission. Kolivan’s the only person who hasn’t asked, and he still isn’t sure if he should lean more towards grateful, or feel like Kolivan doesn’t bother with him at this point.

 

“I want to help you, Keith.” Kolivan says. “But you won’t let me.”

 

He doesn’t respond, and they don’t touch on the subject the rest of the time that Kolivan helps him settle in. The rest of the day he plans to sleep in their bed. Being in a car tired him out, he sets an alarm on his phone to remind him of when he needs to takes his medication. As soon as Kolivan leaves, he searches his home for a proper place to hide the pills. He decides to spread them out in three places. A tiny safe he uses for a passport, inside a retired Christmas stocking that’s tucked away in a bin, and inside an empty makeup wipes packet folded in half and hidden in a book at the bottom of another bin.

 

It isn’t foolproof, but it at least offers a tricky challenge. Something that will be hard to sneak around to find.

 

A little while after the first alarm goes off and he takes another pill, someone familiar gets into bed with him. “Got your flowers,” Keith mutters, half-asleep. Keith keeps his eyes closed, and smiles with content. Pressed gently into a familiar, broad chest, he inhales, and exhales. He’s starving to be held. Needs his fill. Maybe anyone will do, but he won’t dwell on that right now. His prescription is safely hidden, he’s finally home and there’s no fighting. All is well. He drifts off into sleep more.

 

Later, when he wakes and sees his partner has two black eyes like his, it triggers another thing that Lotor said to him.

 

\--------------------------

 

Everything is going well at home, but he’s becoming stir crazy and getting crazier every minute. He finds himself back at work, having a stare down with Pidge that immediately starts when he enters.

 

“Why are you here,” Pidge asks, point-blank. Her arms are crossed. “You have another week off.”

 

Keith huffs, his body sorer than he thought. “That’s no way to talk to your boss,” he says without any punch. Pidge sticks out her tongue, and Keith fights doing the same thing back.

 

“Doctor’s orders,” she says. He keeps hearing that, boyfriend, Shiro, Hunk, Kolivan even Lance. “You need more than a week of rest. That rib of yours takes--”

  
  
“Six weeks to heal.” Keith rolls his eyes, repeating what everyone else has been saying. “I know. He also said that I should try and move around, to prevent mucus buildup. As long as I don’t lift heavy things, I can go back to work.”

 

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

  
  
“I am losing my mind at home,” Keith exclaims, putting his hands out in front of him. “All I do is lay in bed, or on the sofa.”

 

“I wish Shiro came in today. You listen to him,” Pidge mutters. They haven’t seen each other at all since the day he got discharged. Keith texts Shiro every few hours pictures of Black, and asks him to rate the pictures. (So far he’s given them all 10s.)

 

“Look, we both know how much Kolivan hates running the front,” Keith tries to reason. He’s been filling in on Keith’s absence on the days Shiro doesn’t work. Pidge still looks unconvinced.

 

“Just as much as you hate it?” she says.

 

“Where’s Hunk?” Keith looks around, pretending Pidge isn’t in front of him. “He’ll be happy to see me.”

  
  
“I’m happy to see you!” Pidge says in frustration. “But,” she points at him like an older sibling scolding their little brother, “You need to rest.”

  
  
“I have a chair,” He attempts to reason one more time. Pidge raises an eyebrow, still unconvinced. Keith crosses his arms. “Okay. Fine. If I feel bad, I’ll go home.”

  
  
“That’s more like it,” Pidge says triumphantly.

 

\--------------------------

 

Things slowly return to normal. He needs less and less of the pain medication the doctor prescribed to him, until this morning, where he flushed the rest of them down the toilet and flushed. His partner didn’t get his hands on a single pill, but still. Gratifying is the best descriptor, and he’s still on a smug high that is lasting well into the last few hours of work.

 

The humidity’s lasting effect is turning the sky pink for most sunsets. It fades through the parlor’s windows and sets a light tint. Lately, the sun has been setting earlier and earlier.

 

But the heat is still relentless.

 

Hunk sighs before the sun completely sets. “When do you think the heat will finally let up?”  
  
“It’s not the heat,” Keith says while munching on a snack, his arms sore from back to back tattoo appointments. After the hospital visit, his workaholic tendencies have slightly spiraled out of control. “It’s the humidity.”

 

“I dunno man.” Hunk stretches. “Heat or humidity, I sweat through my shirt no matter what.”

 

“Want to borrow one of my crop tops?” Keith grins as Hunk laughs.

 

“Buddy,” Hunk wipes away a fake tear. “You do not want to see me in a crop top.”

 

“My offer still stands.”

 

“Pft, I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

It’s been an easy, pleasant, nice day. Warm customers, no accidents, not once person asked when they close. But it all changes the moment a middle-aged man with furrowed brows opens the door and it hits the wall.

 

“I want my money back,” he scowls. He looks like a lobster from a sunburn, with a clear line separating the sunburn from where a hat and sunglasses covered up other parts of his skin. Keith’s eye twitches, and Hunk gulps.

 

“Why?” Keith asks, his voice threatens to shake, to his surprise. The man stomps every step he takes to approach the front desk.

 

The man slams one of his fists down on the front desk. Keith jumps a little and Hunk notices it with a confused look on his face before returning to the middle-aged man in front of them. The man’s hand must ache from that.

 

“You let my son get a nose piercing. You just let him. What kind of a shady-ass business do you jokes run?”

 

“We card everyone,” Keith says while frowning.

  
  
“That’s not the point!,” The dad exclaims. “He didn’t ask for my permission.”

 

“People over eighteen don’t need a parent to sign for them.” Keith crosses his arms, because today has gone so well, he has more patience to cross them more in confusion, rather than in annoyance. “When did this happen?”

 

“You don’t even know?”

 

“We’re a college town.” Keith shrugs, like that explains everything. The man doesn’t let up.

 

“Give me my money back,” he says, like he’s one of those annoying kids toys that’s programmed to say only a few short lines. Keith fights back an eye roll.

 

The man slams his other hand on the counter. Keith suddenly can’t locate his breathing, like he’s deep underwater without an oxygen mask. Hunk notices it again, and takes over promptly.

  
  
“Sir…,” Hunk says in a pointed tone. “We can’t refund you, customers sign a waiver form. Your son _signed_ one.”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“No… we can’t do anything,” Hunk cringes. Keith doesn’t make eye contact with the dad, who seems to be more reasonable after his balloon popped. “We’re sorry.”

 

“What a way to run a business,” the man snaps. At this point, normal Keith would have snapped back and tell him to get the hell out. Normal Keith. Who is he now, he desperately asks himself in this moment. The pressure in his chest is overwhelming.

 

The man cease fires, and leaves like how he came, angrily, and taking his tantrum out of their poor front door.

 

“Keith…” he hears Hunk say. “Are you okay?”

 

No, no, no. He’s still underwater with questions that he can’t answer. Keith doesn’t know why he’s below surface level to begin with.

 

“Sorry,” Keith tries to brush it off with a shaky laugh, trying to return to the surface and breathe. Breathe. “With the rib. I don’t want to hurt it, you know? We can’t be so sure that guys like him won’t try to do anything like that. I’m just trying to be extra careful.”

  
  
“Right,” Hunk agrees. “That makes sense, don’t worry about it.” Hunk lets out a relieved sigh. “I’m glad that he backed down.” Keith isn’t sure if Hunk believes him, or spots his lie.

 

He’s gone head to head with angrier, more aggressive customers before. This man, a pissed-off dad, isn’t even on the list of the worst customer interactions he’s had to deal with before. Yet this time, he flinched. After work he doesn’t leave right away, he sits in his car in a daze, the only noise he hears are grasshopper chirps. Earlier, he had to excuse him to the bathroom to even out his breathing. The adrenaline by now is dead, extinguished, he’s left cleaning up the ash it left behind. He has a stomachache from coming to terms that physical wounds aren’t the only thing he has to recover from now.

 

It’s expected, except it shouldn’t be. He’s not like other people, he isn’t a victim. Maybe it’ll get better over time. The more it happens, the less he’ll be affected by it. He rubs his face with his hands and lightly smacks his cheeks.

 

“Get it together,” he says to himself. He exhales, and leans his head back, staring at the ceiling of the car. “Get it together.”

 

He’s home in a flash, parks the car and enters through the creaky front door. He shuts the door and leans against it, looking up at the ceiling. Black calls from the living room. The adrenaline is gone, his stomachache left, now he’s empty. It’s unpleasant. He can’t disappear, but drinking brings him a feeling of weightlessness and calm.

 

It’s gonna be one of those nights, he thinks after downing a few beers. He’ll make it, nothing he does pleases himself, he’s disappointed all of his co-workers. But he aims to please. And they haven’t had any intimacy for almost a month now. A vague text send with sloppy fingers and atrocious typos sends. Prep, before he gets too hammered to walk, and because he can’t stand other people prepping him unless he’s three sheets to the wind. What else. Red underwear, his boyfriend likes those. That one pair. He’ll slip them on when he’s a couple more drinks in. After all he aims to please, even though most of the time he’s shooting blind in the dark. Maybe this time he’ll hit a target. His strategy is drink until whatever it is loses its bite, and begins to taste smooth like water. It’s his routine, it’s been his routine for years. The hangover in the morning feels like a bad strain of the flu, but at least he doesn’t have to drink as much as he has to around Lotor.

 

By the time he’s pressed down to the mattress in their bedroom, he’s seeing double.

 

“So spinny,” he observes to no one. Their bed was a discount, secondhand with a firm hold, but he feels weightless. Like he’s floating, most of the time he’s like a bag of sand. That’s what he likes about this.

 

“Oh… oh,” Keith exclaims, touching his chest and feeling surprised that it’s bare. He had a shirt on, he thinks. “Are we doing something?”

 

“You don’t want to?” his boyfriend frowns, hesitating a little.

  
  
“My shorts,” Unlike the shirt, he feels them sliding down his thighs. “Aren’t they super fucking cute?" He doesn't really remember why he's on their bed. "Discounts, I fucking love sales.”

 

“You’re super fucking cute.”

 

He bats his boyfriend with his foot, jokingly. “You like them? I got those shorts for half-off. They were a discount,” he repeats, forgetting that he already mentioned it. 

 

“I know, and I do.”

 

“I’m a slut for discounts.”

 

“You a slut for anything else?”

 

“Love you,” Keith says absentmindedly, and laughs.

  
  
“I love you too.”

 

“Hi,” he greets, drawling it out.

 

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” 

 

He likes being good.

 

“Sure!" he perks up. "Anything for you."

 

“Sit on my lap? You can hug me the whole time. I’ll do all the work.”

 

He crawls over, clumsily trying to adjust himself on his boyfriend’s legs. “Mmm,” he says contently. He enjoys the warmth that the skin on skin contact provides.

 

“You getting tired?”

 

“I’m so fucking drunk,” Keith laughs, poking fun at his slurring. “I’m your kitten, right? Meow.” Keith tilts his head when he’s met with silence. He scrunches his nose. “You gotta say it back,” he pouts. “Meow!”

 

“Meow.”

 

Keith giggles, and puts his arms around his boyfriend’s neck to pull himself forward and close any distance between the two. It helps the room spin a bit slower, there's a burn in his stomach from the alcohol. Any words he hears sound hazy.

 

“Kit, your underwear is still on.”

 

“They’re the red ones you like,” he gasps as he feels hands cup his ass.

 

“I do like them.” He feels them slipping down. He wants to know why they’re coming off, if his boyfriend likes them so much. Honestly, he doesn’t remember why he put them on. It’s more like a lace thong. They’re not practical for work. Maybe he’s out of clean underwear, and had no choice today.

 

“I just-- wanna look good for ya, good for ya,” he half-sings, and laughs again. His boyfriend puts his hand through Keith’s hair and tugs on it gently.

 

“I forgot how silly you get,” his breath is warm against Keith’s ear. “My Kit, my good boy.”

 

“I wanna be it,” he says, voice wavering when he feels soft kisses on his neck. Wanted, loved. Good. “Please, makes me be good. A good thing.”

 

They come off clumsily. They kiss with tongue, Keith’s hair is pulling back and it snaps his head back. He yelps from how tight the grip is in his hair. It burns. A past memory is beaten down by the alcohol in his blood. Keith rolls his hips. He’s not sure if it feels good or not, but he likes the feeling of impressing his boyfriend. Making it feel good for him, thinks that he won’t leave him, will deal with him being broken.

 

The pressure it creates in his pelvis and the warm coil in his stomach feels good, but strange. Odd enough that he wants to stop it. But he wants to be good. He looks down to investigate, a hand bigger than his is wrapped around his cock and drags his grip up and down. Starting off slowly and building up in speed. He blinks and tries to frown. 

 

“Don’t think, close your eyes and let go,” he hears, and he exhales.

 

“Kiss me?” he begs.

 

He moans into his mouth as the pressure overflows and makes his mind feel even lighter than it was before.

 

He’s tired. Wants to stop and fall asleep. But he hears “be good” in his ears and goes along with it until it’s over. Until he aches, and is finally allowed to keel over and shut his eyes.

 

\--------------------------

 

Sun creaking in through opened blinds stirs him awake however many hours later. Today he has it off. His strategy for days like these is to roll out of bed-- literally role out of bed and onto his feet. His boyfriend sometimes comments that he lands looking like a bird, but this morning his partner is sprawled out in the middle of the bed and unable to comment. Keith runs some of his fingers through his messy hair, and cautiously stands up. This morning is different than the prior, his nausea isn’t vomit inducing and the pain in his head is sparse.

 

Divine intervention.

 

Still, despite how pleased he is about his self-induced amnesia, the sticky feeling on his thighs makes him head to their shower immediately. On these morning afters, he likes to scrub his skin until it’s red. He brushes his teeth in the shower too. It’s his gross habit, he likes the efficiency of it. But his partner throws a fuss about it, and every time Keith does it he puts the toothbrush back on the sink. Payback for putting the dishes on the top shelf and blaming it on his baby.

 

“Hey,” Keith calls. Keith rubs the towel through his hair one more time before hanging it over the hanger. “Do you want food?”

 

“Come back to bed.” he hears. “I want to talk to you about something.”

 

On second thought, he’s more tired than he thought. He loves lounging in bed together.

 

“I’m here. You seem nervous,” he says, licking his chapped lips.

 

“I was thinking about how much you mean to me.” Their fingers intertwine. “How much I love you. You’ve stuck by my side all this time. I can’t imagine my life without you.”

 

“I... feel the same way.” Keith says, hesitantly, but truthfully. They’re affectionate, this is almost overboard. This is precursor to something serious. He gulps.

 

“Let’s do it then,” he says, squeezing their hands tighter, resolve on his face.

  
  
“Do… what?” Keith squints, not picking up on something that might be obvious.

 

Tie the knot.” Keith’s eyes widen.

 

“Marriage?” he gasps, sitting up. “You told me before, you never wanted to get married.” And he has already accepted it. Marriage has been closed off. His boyfriend’s been transparent about it from the get-go. He remembers how sad his mother was when his father died in a house fire. She recovered, but not completely. And Keith’s had to call 911 for ___ to be administered. He’s lost too much, a husband seems unbearable to lose. He’d never lose the widow status. It’s too much. He can’t. He doesn’t let how uncomfortable he is show.

 

“It wasn’t an option,” his boyfriend shrugs. “At least, not until a few years ago.”

 

He remembers the day fondly.

 

“I was an adult when the ruling happened,” Keith informs cheekily. “Why wait until now?”

 

“Because, I know you’re the one.” He’s an idiot because his heart flutters. “I should’ve asked sooner. And, I want to get out of here. Go somewhere. Somewhere warm. Somewhere new. I’ve been here almost my whole life. Why not come with me? A fresh start. No baggage.”

 

A fresh start. Surface level, it sounds nice. He’s lived in the area for a long time. Gone to high school in the area, dropped out of college here. Sometimes, people recognize him from the parlor. He bites his fingernails for when he’ll eventually run into Soccer Mom.

 

But deep down, it’s impossible. He’s rooted, too invested. The tattoo parlor is his responsibility. He promised Kolivan. He practically trained Hunk, Pidge, and sorta Shiro. His identity is partially the parlor. Quitting means stripping away what makes him him. What makes him Keith. It’s one of the only thing he likes about himself, his diamond in the rough. His pride and joy.

 

And his parents are buried a few towns over.

 

“And quit my job?” Keith asks.

 

“You’re an amazing artist, Kit,” Comforting hands run through his hair to try and soothe him. It works, partially. “You’d be able to find another job no matter where we go.”

 

Keith already knows that. His capabilities as an artist and as a hard-worker could take him anywhere. The license that Kolivan made him get works in plenty of states, and in some he won’t even need one.

 

“They need me. It’s... different,” he hates saying it, saying what’s obvious and glaring to him. And it isn’t the right answer. For once, he can’t allow himself to be wrapped up in this scheme. Packing up and leaving in the middle of the night, he can’t do it.

 

Silence falls upon them. And it’s awful, dreadful silence. Keith takes a shaky breath. Because finally, he might have to really think about choosing one, or the other. Every other time, it’s been obvious what choice he’ll make. But this time, he bites his lip. Unfamiliar. This is uncharted waters. And he can’t ask for advice, because everyone will tell him the unanimously correct pick.

 

“I’ll think about it,” Keith says to try and save face, partially fibbing and trying to cover up his doubt. Partially trying to convince himself that it’s a good idea. It could be a good idea.

 

“If I didn’t want to leave, would you stay, for me?” he says, regretting it when his boyfriend tenses up.

 

Keith bites his lip and looks away. It means his boyfriend must have already made up his mind. It makes sense. They live in an awful place that fuels his boyfriend’s addiction. They could go somewhere warm, alone. Nobody but themselves to depend on. Why does that send a chill down his spine?  


“Of course.” Keith inches forward to be wrapped up in his arms and feel safe. “We’re a team, together ‘till the end.”

 

Keith feels his heartbeat. He isn’t an expert, but he has the fleeting feeling that he is being lied to. Both decisions make him wade through the unknown. He can’t imagine his life without his partner, but he can’t imagine dropping everything and leaving. Maybe any choice he makes is the wrong choice. He doesn’t know. But no one can know, no one can find out.

 

The issue isn’t brought up until a few days later while Keith’s getting ready for work.

 

This time, his boyfriend acts pushier.

 

“I don’t know yet,” Keith admits, nauseous from a hangover. “My workplace can’t stand on its own without me. I can hire someone to train to take over my position. But that means we can’t leave for at least a month.” he cringes. “Probably longer.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Longer than you want to,” Keith sighs, slightly irritable. He swears sometimes it’s like talking to a brick wall. Uncertainty smacks him. He pauses, and looks back. “But you said you’d wait for me.”  
  
“I’m inpatient,” his partner explains.

 

“I can’t pack up my shit and go,” Keith says exasperatedly, putting his hands up. “I can’t leave everything like you can. But I will leave, I’ll go. Just not now. Later, besides, summer isn’t over yet. Why don’t we stay until late fall? That would give me plenty of time to train someone, and for us to secure a place, for me to get a job somewhere else--”

 

“I understand, I really do,” he boyfriend kisses Keith’s forehead. “We can wait. You’re right, I’m not thinking ahead.”

 

“I’ll come with, I promise,” Keith asserts, feeling empty. “I promise,” he repeats to himself. “So please, give me sometime.”

 

A strange sense of understanding forms between them days following, that neither side is willing to bend the knee. They talk about everything but. Keith’s waiting for the next fight, even itching for it. He doesn’t know how to bring the topic back without becoming angry and yelling. That’s what got him admitted last time, that’s the reason he flinches at loud noises now.

 

\--------------------------

 

It’s strange. It should come out of nowhere. Instead, it’s expected. His boyfriend’s car-- gone. He knows the heart of the man he’s loved for years and years. Maybe he’s an idiot for thinking otherwise. Maybe he should have dropped everything. And just left.

 

The door doesn’t make that awful screeching noise as he steps inside. He feels haunted, walking into an apartment that he knows is more like a graveyard. His brain can’t think properly. Self-sabotage is his closest ally, he should have gone with. The sun was hot and occasionally scorched his skin. But it also provided warmth that he has always desperately needed. He accepted that someday it might wither out, taking him with it. Instead, he flew away from the sun, intentionally. It hurts. He thought once the bruises healed, then everything could be salvageable. Suns don’t just explode immediately, there are signs. He ignored these signs.

 

All of the apartment lights are off. In a way, it’s comforting. A lit up home as his sole welcome home would have been painful. Light bulbs can’t replace a sun. He calls out a name he’s known since his youth. Silence. It surprises him by how meticulously clean his home is while he roams through it, flipping all the light switches he sees on.  

 

Black sleeps in the center of the bed, she looks so comfortable that he decides to bother her later and explore more. The side of the closet that has his clothes has been ravaged through. There’s still some leftover shirts left, he might use it later as a blanket later, something to hold onto for a while. The bathroom is half-stripped as well. There’s only one toothbrush on the bathroom sink.

 

A paper sheet ripped out of a notebook discreetly sits on the kitchen counter when he goes into the kitchen and studies it closer. The glasses are all on the bottom shelves. It’s as if Keith has always lived by himself. He’s only half of himself, part of his identity is gone in what seems like an instant. The paper, ominous, must be opened no matter what. It’s folded in half, there’s a pen right next to it. A haphazard message, something made in the moment, without a second thought. He could throw it away. Why hear why he’s been scorned?  This is all his fault, for pushing this decision off.

 

He doesn’t deserve to be waited on. His better part of his mind tells him to just throw the paper away, throw it all away and don’t look back. But that’s useless, pointless. That’s not how his heart works, and it’s already stretched and torn up. So sore, hasn’t recovered and healed up. It’s not like other muscles, it’s not as elastic. He swallows. Moves a foot in front of another, then he does it again, and again, and again until his waist bumps the counter. All this terror over a small piece of paper. But the paper is more like a death sentence. He swallows again. Puts his hand out and when he touches the paper, he flinches away like it was hot enough to leave his skin raw. Ridiculous, he’s ridiculous. With a stretched out heart that’s vulnerable to being ripped, how else can he react? Something stings his eyes. The room smells like disinfectant, it must be that.

 

A note. An unfitting and almost unforgivable way to leave him alone. The cycle of grief. Where does it start, and where does it end. He took a health class in high school and the teacher told him that the cycle isn’t linear, in fact for most people it goes everywhere. Changes by the day, sometimes the hours and sometimes by the minutes. It’s more like seconds now. It stings more than when he lost his father. Even more than his mother’s. His parents couldn’t help it. But this could have been helped. Was this all for nothing? What does he do now? He’s older now. They separated for three months but that was in his youth. His youth was strangled and left limp years ago. This, this was everything. This was home. Safety, sanctuary. Even when it hurt him, it was still his. Like a natural disaster, it’s been ripped away from him in a matter of rapid moments.

 

 _The_ note. His breath shudders and he moves quickly to grab it before it hurts enough to burn his fingers and the palms of his hand. It’s not a long written note. Less than a paragraph, three run-on sentences. He couldn’t handle a lengthy handwritten note anyway. Who cares about the length anyway.

 

He folds it back in half and tears it up, and drops it on the counter. He’ll clean it up later.

 

\--------------------------

  


He should have called off work, quitting isn’t a familiar word in his vernacular. Besides, this is the decision he made and he needs to own up to it. It’s going to be a long day, he’s there the whole time.

 

The first several appointments aren’t hard. In fact they’re just what he needs. The girl with the flower tattoo wants to add onto it and he spends roughly two hours finishing the line art and adding several of the colors in. She tells him a story about how this flower was her grandmother’s favorite. Keith can relate, the flowers on his thigh were some of the flowers he’d get for her after she’d complete a round of chemotherapy.

 

He even has an appointment with a young girl who tugs her father along, who wants her earlobes pierced. Kids aren’t his specialty, but he likes how much of a chatterbox this girl is, and how she tells her dad that she doesn’t need to have her hand held or anything.

 

“You’re very brave,” Keith says while she recovers from the first earlobe piercing and he moves to the other side for the other lobe. “I have adults come in who have to have their friend hold their hands. Once, I had an adult pass out on me.” He doesn’t mention that the hand holding usually takes places on piercings that are more intense than earlobes, and that the adult who passed out on him was getting a prince albert.

 

“I’m a lot braver than a lot of other people are,” she explains very seriously. Keith can tell she’s trying to fight how uncomfortable she is.

 

“You are,” Keith agrees.

 

“Did your tattoos hurt?” she asks. Keith shakes his head.

 

“Nah, just like an ear piercing.”

 

“Maybe I’ll get some then,” she grins madly.

 

“I think an ear piercing is enough for today, sweetheart,” her father says.

 

Fatigue sets in halfway through the day. He’s decent at compartenizing. This is too hard to do. So, he does what every employee does when they’re having a bad day.

 

Go to his designated room, shut the door, and cry it out. Not all of it, just some. He can’t imagine going home to an empty apartment tonight. It sounds worse than ripping his nails off.

 

“Keith?” He hears Pidge knock on his door.

 

“Yeah?” he croaks.

 

“I have a question,” Pidge says loudly. “So this guy wants a Jacob’s ladder, and Shiro left him to me. But I’ve never seen a dick before, it’s tomorrow but can we switch? I don’t think Shiro knows what it is.”

  
  
“Yeah,” Keith stutters. He half-sobs. Pidge pauses. Then he hears more reverent knocks.

 

“Can I come in?” Pidge asks.

 

“Sure,” he caves, his voice nasally from his nose being clogged by snot. “If you want to.”

 

She opens the door and takes a step in like entering a nuclear war zone until she sees his face, and quickly steps in and shuts the door behind her.

“You look really bad,” Pidge says cautiously, wide eyed. Keith nods, and sniffles. “Really bad. What happened?”

 

He tries to swallow but all he accomplishes is swallowing half of a sob down. “He’s gone,” Keith sputters out. Pidge’s mouth drops.

 

“Who? Him? Your boyfriend.” she says, stunned when Keith nods his head to confirm it.

 

“Why?”

 

“He asked me to elope,” Keith can’t stop his eyes from tearing up and Pidge makes a strangled noise. “I couldn’t, I can’t.” He puts his hands over his face to try and save some of his dignity. “I keep trying to call him and he won’t answer me. I’m on autopilot. I’m losing my mind. He’s gone, he left me. After everything. What do I do now? I don’t know anymore, Pidge. He left me like everyone has.”

 

“We’ll never leave you, Keith,” Pidge reassures quietly, wrapping her arms around him. She doesn’t say anything else, and a sob escapes him. He wants to voice his protests, that her comforting words don’t hold to much in his warped viewpoint.

 

“I don’t know what to do, we’re-- we’re both so similar. He wanted to run, I did too but not like this. I needed him. I need him. Now, now we’re just strangers. I took him off of my emergency contact list. I don’t know where he is, I never will. I waste my daylight trying to figure out what I did wrong. I’m degrading. A nightmare, I keep pinching myself to wake up. It doesn’t work, I never fell asleep in the first place.”

 

Pidge rubs his back a bit harder, out of her element. Letting him blabber on and on, fully absorbing his breakdown and trying to at least give him something to lean on.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Keith says. He pressed his palms to his closed eyes and presses them against it, making his black vision see dark flashes of light. “I’m a fucking mess today.”

 

“It’s not the first time,” Pidge says. That makes him smile as best as he can.

 

“You’re right,” he says.

 

There’s a knock on the door. Right, people have probably heard him. Not the first time, he hopes it’s last time. He also hopes that people stop asking when they close. Both will continue to happen. Hopefully the next time it’s over something trivial. Maybe a happy cry. He’ll be so happy that he’ll excuse himself to sob in the room.

 

“Who is it?” Pidge asks.

 

“Hunk,” he says on the other side. “Is everything okay? I heard crying.”

 

“That’s me.” Keith says.

 

“Why don’t we go downstairs after work?” Hunk offers. “I’ll buy, yeah? Keith? Whatever you want.”

 

Everyone finds out that day, and it takes a few more days before he can go a full day without tearing up or crying to Black at home. He’s still wrapped up in grief. He doesn’t bring up his now ex’s failed elopement plot to anyone else and Pidge promises not to tell anyone else. Guilt still eats at him about his decision, whether or not he thinks it was the right choice.

 

Despite he and his partner’s misgivings and glaring problems, having a part of him cut out of him so quickly inevitably has led to a notoriously bad fallout. He asks for more hours, fills in his day with as much as he can. The small bursts of laughter that happen every few days he holds and squeezes them to his chest as much as he possibly can. Like telling Shiro what a Jacob’s ladder is and having Pidge see a dick in real life for the first time. Or Shiro showing less resistance about getting an ear pierced, or how Hunk has brought food in almost every day this week.

 

He needs to move. The neighborhood he’s in isn’t safe, especially now that it’s only him and Black. Everyone at work has offered their place and he turns them all down, grateful and warmly, but he wants to do this on his own. In a way, this permanence has forced him out of the sadness he typically falls into.

 

He’ll probably never recover fully from a broken heart, and dating again makes his stomach twist. But some sort of semblance of moving on? He’ll take, greedily.

 

\--------------------------

 

They, well, now he, has a few more months left on the lease. The apartment is probably one of the hardest things to leave, but coming home to only Black and no one else has been biting at him. He’s taken to sleeping on the sofa than the bed in his bedroom. He has to go now. Breaking the lease has a small fee, which he can afford, but his landlord offers a bargain.

 

“The landlord says if I paint my apartment, I can break the lease,” Keith explains while on break, Shiro standing beside him with a cup of coffee. “That’s most of the rooms.”

 

“Do you need help?” Shiro asks. Keith shakes his head.

 

“I like painting,” he says, declining. He bites his lip for a moment, in thought. “Do you think the paint would be bad for Black?” he frowns. It’s just the two of them now, and if something happens to Black he’ll go off the deep end.

 

“You might end up mistaking her for the brush,” Shiro points out. Shamefully, Keith can picture using her as a brush. She would love the attention, purring and chirping.

 

“I’d get cat hair everywhere,” Keith cringes. “My landlord would kill me.” He thinks for a moment.

 

“Could you take her for tonight?” Keith asks. Shiro sets down his coffee and sits down next to him. Sometimes, he forgets about how much bigger Shiro is compared to him. A real muscle queen.

  
  
“She misses you,” Keith adds, like he really needs to convince Shiro. “I think you stole her heart.” Shiro smiles.

 

“I miss her too,” Shiro reassures. He’s always been happy to lend a hand to Keith whenever Keith needs it, lately he’s been extra attentive to his moods. “I don’t mind.”

 

Shiro manages to convince Keith that yes, he can just follow Keith home to pick her up. Yes, he’ll be fine, he’s visited worse. Yes, he will stay in his car.

 

Keith grabs her things inside his home, putting them into a bag. Shit, he doesn’t have a proper cat carrier. Is he a bad owner? Perhaps. He comes out of his place with a bag hanging off of his shoulder, Black held like an infant in his arms.

 

“I don’t have something to put her in,” he says, a little embarassed. Shiro waves it off.

 

“I’ll make sure to drive in the right lane, going sixty the whole time,” Shiro reassures, scratching behind one of her ears. Her purring gets louder. “Your old man has to paint, and he might mistake you as a paintbrush.” She starts purring in his arms. Keith feels envious. “Do you want to be a paintbrush?” He asks affectionately, teasing.

 

“No cat paintbrushes right now,” Keith shakes his head, scheming up a possible Halloween costume for her.

 

\--------------------------

 

He starts immediately. The landlord wants a single wall painted in the living room and kitchen, and all walls in the bedroom and bathroom. Any colors. Easy. After one wall in the kitchen, it becomes cathartic.

 

Maybe he should quit and just be a painter.

 

It really is an easy way to pass the hours. He gets wrapped up in the whole process. And it’s satisfying to watch a white wall become completely matte in whatever color he choses. Finishing off the corners and edges, delicately, so the paint doesn’t spread to the other walls. He finishes the kitchen and living room quickly. He goes with a dark red in the kitchen, and a very soft green in the living room. In the bathroom, he decides to try a soft gray on three sides, and a bolder turquoise on the fourth wall. After he finishes the soft gray sides, he stares at the fourth naked wall and second guesses his decision. Is turquoise the way to go? What if it’s too much? He could dilute it with white paint, or choose a different color entirely--

 

The noise of a broken window breaks interrupts his train of thought. He exits the bathroom and turns towards the entrance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will update soon!! <3<3


	10. empty my bank account, and buy that boy with a pipe (I might)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, pointing a finger gun at myself, on February 15th: You better post this today!! Or I swear to God!!  
> me, telling lies: yes papa
> 
> I've gotten some compliments about this fic that I've made a good effort at keeping Keith's DV situation realistic, at least as realistic as someone like me can achieve. And it means so much to me! TY so much for that, because I have been really trying my best. I've had this scene written out since I posted the first chapter, and I've.. re-written it many, many times . :,) And through my many attempts at making this... at about the same quality as my other writing, I've come to the conclusion that this isn't very realisticccc. This is just some drama and action!!! But we have finally made it to /the/ chapter. Yay!!
> 
> And I'm sorry for the slow updates. I love this fic, it's my first Voltron fic, but it's pretty depressing and writing it can sometimes take a lot out of me. February has been a tough month. I've kinda conquered this by posting happier fics though (shameless advertising), so I think they're going to be quicker now. For real!! Sorry for the wait.
> 
> tw: violence, assault, noncon

 

\-------------

 

The sound of glass breaking makes him flinch, and the loud pounding at his front door makes him flinch again. This isn’t a robbery, there’s nothing valuable to take, and none of his friends would break a window before knocking on the door. Whoever it is, it’s someone who’s here for him. And he has nothing to defend himself with against whoever it is.

 

He heads right back into the bathroom, turns the light off and grabs his phone, and decides last minute to keep the bathroom door open and fit into the cabinet under the sink. The fit is tight, but he adjusts himself in the knick of time. The door opens with a slam that makes him shiver involuntarily. He tries to keep his breathing quiet, curls himself in and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t recognize the man who’s now walking through. It isn’t Lotor. It certainly isn’t his ex. Whoever the man is, he’s lethal. And Keith’s car doesn’t stand a chance. There’s wet paint on the walls. Lights are still on. His car is parked outside. Hope is slim. Thank Christ Lance’s texts were becoming so annoying that he clicked his phone to silent.

 

In the otherwise quiet home, Keith easily deducts that yes, he’s correct, the guy can’t be here just to take some of his shit and bail. This man is on a hunt and Keith’s pray. Common sense tells him to message someone, tell someone that he’s in danger. The light of his phone’s screen might give him away though. He clearly can’t call-- footsteps make their way into the bedroom, which the bathroom is attached to. Keith makes the decision that he’s going to take the risk if the intruder goes back to the kitchen. 

 

But in these next few moments, his silence is critical. 

 

Every time this man walks, Keith hears jingling, probably from a key chain hung around his belt. With that, and his loud boots, as soon as he steps foot into the bathroom, inches away from Keith, Keith puts a hand over his mouth. The anticipation makes his chest hurt. His toes curl.

 

“I know you’re in here,” the intruder cockily pipes up. Keith stops breathing. He doesn’t know who this person is. Is this a trap? Is Keith this obvious? There’s no way, there’s no way that this man knows where he is. “If you don’t come out, I’ll shoot.”

 

His mind scatters to try and put a face to the voice, every connection he tries to make is a dead end. This isn’t good. He’s always been so involved in his job that he hardly notices neighborhood changes and tensions. It wasn’t part of his responsibility. He was going to leave tomorrow, or the following day. Why this? Why is he so unlucky? There’s a chance that he could, that if he picks the wrong choice here, he might not wake up tomorrow-- 

 

An explosive noise that sounds like lit firecracker crashes against the floor and smacks the outside of the cabinet with bathroom tile kicked up from where the bullet lodged itself into. He flinches without thinking, smacking his head against the wall and gasping. The sound dissipates, and a boot lazily hits the cabinet on the outside.

 

“Knew it, come out.” He doesn’t. He hopes in vain that the intruder didn’t hear him over the noise. A heavier kick. “Hurry up.”

 

He slips his phone into his pocket, and leans forward onto his knees to open the cabinet door and crawl out. Once he sticks a hand out, his wrist is snatched and he gets dragged out forcefully. The scramble makes him land on his knees, hard, and he protests with a pained gasp.

 

The intruder stops moving, and finally, they meet eye to eye. To his shock, Keith really can’t recognize this person. It must show on his face, the man grins like a sadist. This will not go well.

 

“We’ve never met before,” the man confirms. Keith stays still, his heart pounds in his chest so fast that it burns.

 

“What do you want?” Keith asks, managing to level his voice. He grimaces when the man grips his wrist even harder. It’ll bruise.

 

“Why would I let you know?” The response eats his patience, and he uses all of his force he has to pull his wrist back. He stops, blood cold, when the barrel of the intruder’s gun points right at his forehead. 

 

“It’s only me,” Keith says, voice a little bit above a whisper. “I’m the only one here now.”

 

“I already know that.”

 

The intruder crouches down right beside Keith, moving the pistol away from his forehead. A better look at him does nothing for Keith. 

 

“Who are you?” Keith asks again. The man takes his hand off of Keith’s wrist, and Keith pulls it back to his chest to examine it. His wrist has red indents shaped like fingers.

 

“Run and I’ll shoot,” he casually reminds Keith, and he starts to rummage through his pants. Keith stays still. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale--

 

“Answer my question,” he asks with bite. A demand he’s in no place to make. “Who are you?”

 

“Lotor’s gone.”

 

The floor shakes. “What?” He sputters. “There’s no way.”

 

“His apartment is empty. He sold us out, all of us.”

 

“You’re lying. Sold you out?” This is out of character. This doesn’t make a lick of sense. “There has to be a misunderstanding.”

 

“Do you know where he is?”

 

“Of course I don’t,” Keith huffs. “Why in the hell would I?”

 

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” the man says with a shrug.

 

Keith squeezes his hands together. “I’m not lying!” He flicks his eyes to the gun and back, should he try to struggle for it? But this guy is taller, bigger, his demeanor is off-putting. He’d aim for Keith, and enjoy it. What does Lotor’s disappearance have to do with him? Why does he matter, in this shit show of an investigation? And why does it sting, Why do his eyes burn to learn that Lotor ran off without telling him?

 

“That sucks for you,” the man says, shrugging. He seems barely interested. 

 

He tells Keith to strip. And doesn’t give a reason why. 

 

“Bruises,” he says, frowning at a shirtless Keith.

 

“What’s wrong with them?”

 

“...It’s not permanent,” he agrees, shrugging. “Everything off.”

 

“No.”

 

“I said everything off,” he says lowly. He motions to his gun again. “Do you want me to use this?”

 

_ Yes _ , he wants the answer to run out of his mouth. He’s on display like livestock, about to be selected to be eaten. Why wait, he thinks. Kill his spirit, but maintain his dignity.

 

He turns to Keith. “This will go a whole lot smoother if you cooperate,” the man warns. 

 

Keith shows his teeth and growls, “You’re disgusting.”

 

“I’ll do it myself.” He tries to bat the man’s hands away. It’s unsuccessful. “Get off, off,  _ off _ \-- don’t fucking touch me!”

 

“Shut the fuck up.” Shorts pulled to his knees, the man looks it over. Keith is shaking. “Looks good.” He looks back up at Keith’s face. “You’re a lucky one.” 

 

“Shoot me,” his voice falters. “I’d rather die than go with you.”

 

“Too fucking bad.”

 

Before Keith can retort, the man throws a hand that cracks against his face.

 

It makes him dazed. “What the _ fuck _ ,” Keith groans, pressing his hand to the side of his face. He feels fingers in his hair and yelps again when the man grips it as hard as possible and forces Keith flat on his back. The whiplash sends a burn through his neck. That’s where he’s grabbed next, and the man’s fingernails dig into the skin. 

 

“I told you to do what I say, it doesn’t have to be like this.”

 

Keith finds an opening and takes the base of the man’s pointer finger. Bite. That’s all he has now. He shuts his mouth, his canines sink in and it tastes like he put pennies in his mouth. It’s not enough. Bite isn’t enough. In fact, it backfires horribly. With something caught in his mouth, and his hands trying to pull the one’s around his throat off, he’s left open and vulnerable for a damp cloth that bears down on his nose and makes him gag. The hand pressing the cloth adds more force. It smells like an artificial, nauseating sweet and feels cool on his skin. He makes a wounded noise as a plea, and digs his heels into the ground. There’s no opening to plea and take back his bite. His legs begin to relax, then the tight grip he has on the man’s wrist is too difficult to continue. Finally, his conscious relents, and gives out. 

 

 

\-------------

 

The cheap lamp on the desk emits a weak cold light over the room, casting short shadows. He struggles to make out the others in the room, which Keith guesses is a cheap motel room.  His cheek is sore from the blow he took earlier, but it doesn't come close to the chronic ache in his arms. The constant tug of his wrists, and the awkward position his arms have been forced into hurt. Keith blows his guise of sleeping when he tries to pull his wrists away from the cuffs they're stuck in.

 

"Looks like you're awake." One of the men observes. It's the same man from earlier. Keith doesn't recognize the other man in the room, sitting down beside the desk.

 

He squints to try and see the newcomer's face. Right away Keith notices the multiple piercings lining his ears. Dimly, he wonders if the man has ever been to his workplace.

 

"Like what you see, baby?" piercings remarks, leaning forward.

 

"Fuck off," Keith growls.

 

Piercings looks over to the man, brushing Keith off.

 

"You sure you don't want a bite?" he goads.

 

"Bite?" Keith repeats, looking at Piercings, and then at the man. "Touch me at all, and I'll rip your ear off."

 

"That'd hurt your pretty mouth," Piercings notes. "You like that, you like hurting?" He stands up out of his chair. "Leave 'im to me.  I like them like this."

 

"Fine by me," the man says, a wicked smile on his face. Goosebumps start to bump his skin and a shiver jumps down Keith's spine.

 

"What do you want from me?" Keith asks, unable to keep his voice still. There's a lack of patience in the air.  "Why in the hell am I here?"

 

"Sorry kitty, can't answer that." As the man tries to get on top of Keith, he uses his free legs to try and deter the man away with kicks. It works once, his foot connects with the base of his throat and the man falls over onto the carpet, gasping.

 

"I told you to get the fuck away from me," Keith warns, unable to hide the triumphant grin on his face. It's gone in an instant as the man pulls out a switchblade while getting back up.

 

"Not so confident now? Where's that smile of yours gone, kitty?" he laughs, eyeing Keith like caught prey. Keith freezes, honing in on the switchblade. It doesn't go unnoticed.

 

"Pretty isn't it?" the man marvels.  He gets back on the bed and over Keith, who curses and tries to bite at him, gripping the blade the entire time as a warning. "You can bite me later." He grips Keith's jaw with his free hand, holding his head in place.

 

"What're you doing--" Keith says, trying to struggle out of the cuffs again, in futile. The man brings the blade up to his face, stroking the ride side of Keith's face in up and down with almost no force.  The sudden pressure that the man adds to the blade makes the tip sink into his cheek with a sickening pop sensation. It doesn't register for a moment, until the blade dives deeper and drags down-- Keith yells and jerks his head trying to escape the knife in his face. It cuts across, sliding a little further into his neck.

 

"Shit," the man curses, frustrated. Keith's breathing comes out patchy and uneven as the pain shakes across his entire body.  Out of the corner of his eye he spots the bloodied blade and immediately crushes his eyes shut. The slice is red hot and it stings deep. The blood that began as a trickle and is now gushing runs down his neck and soaks everything near it.

 

Keith hears him say more, the pain mutes him and the blood loss doesn't help. There's hot breath that he feels on his neck, and then a tongue licks off some of the blood stained on it. Keith shudders and opens his eyes to come face to face to the man with eyes that are darker than he remembered.

 

"You gonna be good for me now, alright?" Jolts Keith as upright as he can get, almost smacking his forehead against the man's forehead. The knee jerk reaction is instinctual.

 

"Don't touch me," Keith hisses, paled with fatigue creeping in. 

 

"Why?" the man chimes. He wraps his fingers, coated in Keith's blood, in the belt loops of Keith's shorts.

 

The loss of blood dampens the fire in his soul, the man's lusting glare pins him down. Keith tries to light the soggy gunpowder in himself, and he doesn't have enough energy to fire a single shot. He tries to be a biter, but his teeth were shaved down. He wants to scratch deep, red marks, but his nails were declawed. Not give people like these the glee that they want. He isn't like that. he's in the shadows, curled up, shivering.

 

"Stop," Keith sputters, his words drained. That nameless voice from his past rears it's ugly head-- what do good boys say, again? 

 

'Keith, what do good boys say?'

 

" _ Please _ stop," he begs, shorts already dragged down his legs and tossed somewhere in the room. 

 

'Good boy.'

 

The man licks a long strip up Keith’s face. The slick feeling is abhorrently slimy and Keith shakes his head frantically to get it off of him. A whimper escapes him. The onset of pain in his chest is just as sharp as the pain in his face. Heartbeat hitting his chest over and over again, it's in his ears. Three fingers rammed down his esophagus make him loudly gag. Keith coughs when he pulls them out with a pop. There's no point in pulling at the handcuffs, he still does it though, harder than the other times. He makes a scared, whining noise as he realizes that he can’t kick this man off of him. Nothing is going to stop this. His brain is going static. He breathes out, it’s more like a sob. 

 

"I'll make it good for you, kitten."

 

"Don't call me that!" Keith cries. "Nobody gets to call me that, not anymore! No one gets to touch me!" The man circles around his hole, the anticipation for what comes next causes him to clench. Keith bites down on his lip to stop crying as a finger forces its way in, his dehydrated lips bleed, and then quiver. It's too dry, the man's fingernail is too long and sharp. He himself is too sober, Keith's too coherent for this. 

 

"I'll do anything please no more," he cries, eyes burning. Two more fingers are shoved mercilessly in him. "Please stop, it hurts!" 

 

"Good."

 

His vision too convoluted with tears.

 

Suddenly the calloused fingers slide out, and relief pumps through him, it's temporary and in vain. Keith knows what's going to happen next. It always happens, this is the last step in this game. 

 

'But, Keith, do you remember what else you know happens? What else you're supposed to do?'  
  
  


Be a good boy and take it. Take it all, everything. And don't cry about it. After all, it could be worse. He hears and sees the man zip down his jeans, and undo the buttons to slide them down his thighs.

 

“No,” Keith whimpers. His wrists burn from the strain. “Not this. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me, don’t,  _ don’t _ \-- I don’t want it, stop." Something warm presses again him. Keith's spin freezes in place.  "Stop, stop--" The man pushes his cock in. "Stopstopstopstopstop--” Keith's back arches and his mouth opens to let out a soundless cry as the man above him moans while bottoming out. The pain that comes with it is unbearable. Absolutely unbearable, to the point that he loses his voice during the first few deep, rough thrusts. Keith finds his voice when the relentless drag makes something inside of him tear, and he screams. Spit isn’t enough, it’s never enough. This guy wants it to hurt on purpose. It’s a heavy, relentless drag. It’s familiar, in all of the most hellish ways.

 

'Take it like a good boy.' If he could, he'd throw an arm over his face to preserve whatever dignity Keith tries to grasp.

 

It’s a sensory nightmare. The ache in his wrists from the handcuffs, the sting that’s taken over his face, the burn from being filled up like a fuck doll, the weight of the man on top of him. The sick bastard gets off from this, his eyes keep on Keith’s the entire time, focusing on the bleeding laceration. It’ll scar. Keith knows how deep a blade has to go for it to scar. He masked his other scars with three tattoo sleeves. How will he cover this up, he thinks to himself. How will he do the impossible and recover from this, if he even makes it out, he thinks to himself. 

  
  


It goes on, and on, and on. Keith's body starts to automatically shake from the shock. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” the man moans, after what seems to be forever. Keith opens his mouth to throw a punch, and it backfires  as the man widens his eyes, captivated by Keith's mouth. “That a split tongue baby?” he smirks. “Looks like you’re not as innocent as you look. You like this?” Keith shakes his head. “You like the pain?” Keith sobs. His hair is grabbed and thrown back. A mouth laced with the taste of cigarettes encloses his, trying to play with his two tongues. Keith thinks to himself, if he plays along and puts in some effort, this it end sooner. So he kisses back, and feels shameful for doing so. He prays to anyone, aware that he can't be picky, that this will tip the man over the edge. It does, he gets a moan in his mouth as a reward, and Keith bites back any noise when he feels an uneven jerk, then several shallow thrusts to finish him off. He assumes that his ass will do what his face did, bleed from abuse

 

“Kill me,” Keith croaks while the man adjusts his pants around his waist. “Not again-- no more.  _ Please _ \--” He notes that the bleeding on his face hasn’t lightened up yet. His eyes struggle to remain open, he’s starting to get goosebumps from feeling chilly. But this time, he welcomes passing out. Embraces the black dots in his vision, silently begs for it to happen as quickly as possible. The rapist says something towards him, Keith can’t make out what he’s saying. Thank God for that.

 

\-------------

 

Someone pulls him up. Hard. Enough to where the wind knocks out of him. Two angry, crescent eyes look down at Keith’s face.

 

“Lotor?” Keith slurs, the first words he’s spoken in who knows how long. His voice is raspy from lack of water. 

 

No one else he knows has long locks of platinum silver hair that swallow him up. 

 

“Are you too far gone to stand?” The words wash over him in his haze.

 

“Where…?” He declares with exasperation. Lotor widens his eyes, taking the scene in and then loudly sighs. Keith meets darkened, glaring eyes.

 

“You are indeed,” Lotor releases his hands from Keith’s shoulders and Keith falls back onto the bed with a light thud. He’s searching for something in the room, and quietly grabs Keith’s shorts where they were thrown off earlier.

 

“Here they are,” he mutters, returning to Keith’s side. “Get up, and put these on.” 

 

It’s clumsy, and if it wasn’t Lotor’s guidance and then intervention, he would have put them on backwards. 

 

“It hurts,” Keith breathes when he finishes raking them. His thighs feel sticky, a wetness is breaching into the fabric of his shorts. The other man’s face darkens.

 

“Right.” He wraps his arm around Keith’s waist and pulls him in close. “I’m taking you out of here, walk with me.” 

 

It’s a losing battle to try and walk with Keith to Lotor’s out-of-character dark blue Prius, so he carries him out in his arms, pressing Keith against his chest. He puts him in the car and straps him to the seat too. By now, Keith's shaking, teeth starting to rattle despite the hot summer night.

 

Lotor looks defeated, he looks riddled with guilt. Keith has never seen him make that face before. “What did they do to you?” he asks.

 

Keith shakes his head vigorously, too vigorously.

 

“A lot,” Keith says, groaning and dropping his head down between his knees. His shirt sticks to his neck. The seatbelt stretches so far that it barely accommodates him.

 

“My head is worse than the concussion. And I smell--” Like sweat and sex. The smell has an iron grip on his stomach and he feels it squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing. “Fuck,” Keith cries, his recent and old memories hitting like waves. Lotor twists the car key in the ignition and pulls out of a long driveway. It’s bumpy and jostles them around, bouncing once.

 

“I apologize,” Lotor says, seeing Keith grit his teeth. “My car isn’t suitable for drabs like this.”

 

Keith falls back and rests his head against the seat, chin tilted up. “Where are we?”

 

“A city away,” he says. “We’ll be home in two hours.”

 

Keith sighs, disappointed. “How long was I been there?”

 

“Less than 72 hours,” Lotor says like he’s talking about the weather. Keith opens his eyes in shock.

 

“More than two days?” he gapes. Keith runs a hand through his oily, unkempt hair. He stays quiet, brooding.

 

“Do you remember anything?” Lotor asks, speeding up on a ramp to the freeway. 

 

“You disappeared,” Keith says, he grips his fists. “You sold everyone out. Then they came for me. Then someone raped me. He cut my face open.”

 

Lotor falls silent.

 

“Why?” Keith asks, desperately. His nerves are shot, with his head hurting and stomach twisting. “Why did they take me?”

 

Lotor presses his lips together, displeased and eyes darkening. 

 

“Tell me,” Keith presses on. He follows it up with a groan and puts his face in his hands, the high speeds not helping his attempt to quell his nausea. “Tell me why they put a gun to my head, why they made me smell chloroform, why they drugged me, why they raped me? Tell me why they made me remember this with a cut. Tell me.” He sits up, trying to meet Lotor’s eyes. “They could have driven me anywhere,” his voice shakes. “I could be somewhere where you couldn’t have found me.”

 

Lotor shakes his head. “That’s not possible, you were a lure--”

 

Keith’s heart stops, his mouth opens. “I was a  _ lure, _ ” he whispers. “I was a lure?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“Why?” Keith asks, close to pathetic tears.

 

“People noticed our..." Lotor pauses. "Closeness.”

 

“Closeness,” Keith repeats on his tongue. What bullshit. “Fuck you.”

 

“I just saved you,” Lotor comments.

 

“Saved me from things you caused,” Keith corrects. His lip quivers, he barely manages to swallow. “You’ve ruined my life!” Keith exclaims, with a sob following immediately.

 

“I could have left you to them,” Lotor snaps. Keith bites his bottom lip to try and keep his mouth shut. “I could go back and give you back. Have you seen yourself?” he laughs breathlessly. “You’re like a sick little animal. You can’t defend yourself in any way. I could do anything to you.”

 

_ “I almost killed for you.”  _ Keith remembers him saying. This is Lotor's defense mechanism. This is him trying to deal with his unfamiliar. 

 

“But you won’t do anything,” Keith says, sinking his teeth into Lotor's farce. Lotor doesn’t respond, eyes too focused on the empty roads. “You won’t hurt me.” He remembers how warm Lotor’s hand was while holding his in the hospital.  

 

Suddenly, a light bulb flickers on. What Lotor feels, why he's doing this. Keith's own feelings light up. The revelation squeezes his throat, begging to strangle and leave it purple. To preserve both of their dignities, Keith keeps his mouth closed. They fall upon a long string of silence. Keith eventually lets his eyes close and he dozes off half-asleep, curling in on himself.

 

If his stomach wasn’t empty, he would be throwing up now. The pain is barely bearable, the pain in his head spikes. His cheek burns. The information he runs through his head leaves him more in despair. He’ll never forgive the tyrant in the driver’s seat. He also can’t explain the relief at seeing him. 

 

“Do you remember that painting?”

 

“Boy with a pipe,” Keith mutters. 

 

“I always liked the flowers decorated on the boys head,” Lotor responds. Keith sighs through his teeth but lets Lotor continue.

 

“I made a deal with someone. I won’t face any criminal charges because I took down everything in my control, and gave information on my peers.”

 

“And they wanted revenge.”

 

“Precisely,” Lotor says. He meets Keith’s eyes for a fleeting moment before returning his eyes to the road. “I bought your freedom.”

 

“Thanks,” Keith scoffs.

 

“I killed for you.”

 

Keith doesn’t respond. He isn’t flattered. He’s numb. He can barely feel his fingertips and toes.

 

They’re quiet once more, and Keith rests his head against the passenger window, avoiding the hot cut on his cheek. He tries to close his eyes and get some rest.

 

It dawns on Keith that he hasn’t gone to work in days, and he hasn’t been home for days. 

 

“I need to call work,” he sits straight up in panic. They all think he eloped. Pidge will tell everyone about the failed elopement. They’ll think that he changed his mind, and left. 

 

“Not work,” Lotor protests.

 

“Then who?” Keith growls. Lotor shrugs.

 

“I’m taking you to the local emergency room.”

 

“No, no no no. No doctors.”

 

“You need prep, and the cut on your face looks like it’s ready to burst with pus.”

 

Keith shakes his head. The cut on his face feels hot. His skin is so itchy. Everything feels unbearably itchy. “I don’t want them to touch me.”

 

“Quit being unreasonable,” Lotor scolds.

 

Lotor. Scolding him. For being damaged because of Lotor’s own doing. His temper flares, the gun powder drying, the fire beginning to rise. “Shut the fuck up,” Keith exclaims. “Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t, don’t think about me. Get out of my life." Keith hits his fist against the window, making his knuckles sting. "Get out!”

 

Lotor reaches over with a hand and Keith recoils. “Don’t touch me!” he warns, showing fangs. Lotor withdraws his hand. 

 

“I won’t,” Lotor mumbles.

 

The car trip ends with Lotor parking his car in the parking garage next to the emergency room entrance. Keith’s still unable to walk, and Lotor has carry him in his arms again. A few steps in and nurses hover around to take over-- he’s a ten on the pain chart, he’s first priority. They try to help Lotor put Keith in a wheelchair to roll him away to a private room for examination. He hates Lotor. He hopes Lotor rots. But Lotor is familiar, and he hates himself for clinging to Lotor and refusing to let go. He hates himself for sobbing into Lotor’s chest. And he hates himself for begging Lotor to stay, hates the comfort he feels when Lotor agrees and carries him.

 

He forces down what they want him to swallow. But the first try at a physical examination goes horribly. He almost hits a nurse in the face, hissing. Lotor tries to hold his hands down, even he flinches when Keith lets out a loud cry. They want to check him over, they want to drain and treat the laceration on his face, they want to help. He wants them to help, he can’t stop the way his body reacts. Finally, a nurse suggests giving him Xanax and Keith agrees to chew on a small white pill for relief.

 

The treatment is easier after it settles in his body and coats his nerves. His skin itches, but it’s an itch he can manage. A nurse tells him that he’s lucky. There’s no internal damage, and the laceration on his face didn’t damage any nerves on his face.

 

“You’ll need to take truvada twice a day for twenty-eight days, and this antibiotic for your cut and wrists for fourteen days,” a heavy-set nurse instructs. She been assigned to him the entire time, and she still hasn’t lost her patience with him. Every time she addresses Keith, she’s tries to kneel down to his eye level. She looks up at Lotor. “Make sure he doesn’t miss a single dose.” Lotor nods. Then she tells Keith that they want him here overnight. He doesn’t want to. He wants to go home, go into his bed, hop into his shower and scrub his skin until he bleeds, he doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

  
“I need Black,” Keith’s voice shakes again, trying to control his tears. “I need her, I need. What do I need?” Comfort, warmth, good touch. It’s been years, but he wants his mother.

 

The nurse offers him a chance to shower, and he takes up her offer. He manages a short one, sitting on a raised stool most of the time. Drying off after scrubbing himself raw, he changes into a hospital gown and carefully limps out of the bathroom. He expects to see Lotor still hanging around. And he is. But what takes him back is  _ Hunk _ sitting beside Lotor.

 

What a fucking pair. They look so uncomfortable beside each other, until Hunk spots him and stands up 

 

“Hunk…?”

 

“I live the closest,” Hunk says, delicately linking arms with him. Hunk puts his other hand on Keith’s back, to lead him to his hospital bed. Keith tries his hardest to hide the shiver down his back. “Kolivan should be here any minute. Pidge and Shiro know, Pidge is at Shiro’s. They’ll come later.” Hunk’s eyes start pouring out tears. Lotor inches away from them, completely out of place.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Keith whimpers, his own eyes starting to burn.

 

“You’re alive, thank God you’re alive!” Hunk sobs.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TY for reading!! <3<3<3


	11. with you, the day begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why didn’t he hide sooner, why didn’t he use his legs more during the assault, why didn’t he scream or bite? Why did he let it all happen? They’re more or less answerless. That’s the worst part. Everything is becoming a losing battle. His self-autonomy is damned in more ways than one. Things that used to not bother him now make him run and hide, or throw up. He encounters demons whenever he goes. Everyone worries. No one he knows isn’t concerned. They know. He’s easy to read, he’s being a burden. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel.
> 
> Unless he--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kicks the door open  
> sorry for the wait!!! I hope you like this chapter!
> 
> tw: suicidal thought
> 
> THANK YOU cryptidkickflip FOR BETA-ING!!

He collapses into Hunk’s arms, and the only thing he sees while he sleeps is black.

 

The sleep is light, he can still partially see the light in the room turned off. He hears voices that he can’t quite put a name and a face to. All he wants to do is wake up. The drugs must be playing a role.

 

These feelings stick with him as he drifts in and out, like waves on a beach. That’s fine, and all. But why is the tide so far away? Where’s the coast guard?  _ Move your legs.  _ Something on his face becomes warm and sticky again. Then, a sting from tape being ripped off and added back on.

 

When the tide settles as close as it does to the sand, he opens his eyes. Everything should hurt, but it doesn’t. Looking down at his arm, a thick IV needle sticks out of his arm, firmly taped down with clear tape. His arm feels sore from the dryness. It hooks up to a bag held up. Pain medication, he guesses. Nothing feels like it should. In fact, instead of trying to swim, he’s as light as a cloud.

 

Maybe pain meds aren’t that bad, comparing how much he should hurt.

 

Light from the parking lot and the from the door’s window partially illuminate the room. They tell him that it’s either late night or early morning. From the bird chirping outside the window, Keith believes it must be the latter. When he turns his head to the left, the light from the door shines on his eyes and makes them blurry.

 

A folded pillow sits behind his back, supporting him upright. He thinks about how long he slept. There’s no catheter, a tell-tale sign that he’s been asleep for too long. Something-- someone’s fingers creep up on him, approaching his right side and the suddenness of it makes him flinch. He brings his hands up in a defensive position.

 

“Who--”

 

The hands just belong to Kolivan. Keith lowers his hands and waits for him to start talking.

 

“You’re awake,” he states the obvious. 

 

“For how long?” Keith whispers with a dry, sore throat.

 

“A few hours.”

 

Keith swallows. He can make out Kolivan just fine-- but what if someone else is here too? Hiding? Waiting? “Can you flip the light on?” he says, out of breath. Kolivan moves, then he’s alone again and Keith freezes. 

 

The room goes from dim to shining a bright cool light that at first, blinds him. After a moment of constant blinking,  gets used to it. 

 

Kolivan looks at him, really looks at him. Keith shifts in his the bed. 

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“You look like shit,” Kolivan says bluntly as he returns to his chair. 

 

“Really?” Keith dryly says back. “I had no idea. Here I was, thinking I’d look like a million bucks.”

  
  
“I’m taking you home.”

  
  
Keith freezes. “Where is home,” he says, already knowing the answer.

 

“I cleared out your old room--”

  
  
“No,” Keith interrupts. He doesn’t mean to sound as emotional as he does. “There’s no way.”

  
  
“Don’t be difficult.”

  
  
“I’ll find my own place,” Keith declares in a concealed beg. “I’ll live on my own.”

 

“You don’t have a car,” Kolivan deadpans.

 

“I can buy a beater.”

  
  
“I know how much you get paid,” Kolivan muses.”You can’t afford living on your own here.”

  
  
He’s about to lash out from being cornered because Kolivan’s right and he hates it when he wins arguments. Comebacks come and go in his head, but he is in the wrong because he can’t afford to live by himself. In his state, he isn’t sure if he should live on his own, but that’s a secret he won’t anyone.

 

“This really bothers you,” Kolivan comments.

 

“I hate depending on you,” Keith says honestly. “I don’t want to move back in with my-- my parent.”

  
  
Kolivan looks impressed. “Fair.” Then he sighs. “You’re very similar to her.”

  
  
Keith softens, because that isn’t an insult. His mother could be as stubborn as an ox and always strived to be as independent as possible. He tries to think back to the days when she refused to drive herself to chemo treatments, until the very last few months.

 

A spike of fear hits his chest. They're irrational and he knows they come from the medication, but he grabs onto Kolivan's arm and squeezes.

 

“She’d be so disappointed in me right now.” His voice falters.

 

“There’s no point to think about how people would think of you.” This is the closest Keith will possibly ever get as comfort from him. The matter-of-factness in his tone brings forth a feeling that Keith can’t describe, but it makes him want to run, hide somewhere to cower. He pulls away and hugs himself, unsettled. 

 

“Where is he?” Keith asks, trembling. 

 

Kolivan looks at him, confused. “Hunk?”

  
  
Fuck. “No, no he-- he’s tall, with long hair.”

  
  
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. Hunk was asleep when I arrived, there was no one else.”

  
  
The sob comes from somewhere deep down. But tears don’t fall; he’s exhausted. He inhales and exhales.

 

“Is he someone important?”

  
  
“No,” Keith responds. “And he didn’t give a shit about me either. But, he could have said goodbye anyway.” Kolivan’s already uncomfortable, so he doesn’t say anything back. Lotor’s bloody clothes are seared into the forefront of his mind. What an anticlimactic departure. No goodbye. He’ll have to ask Hunk. He’s tempted to send a message to him.

 

Oh, right. He doesn't have a fucking phone anymore.

 

“I don’t have a phone anymore,” he sighs. “Do I.”

 

“No. There were some picture books under your bed. Some clothes. We had to threaten your landlord to even get in. They’re in your old room now.”

 

Old room. Ack.

 

“I think I.. Wanna sleep some more.”

 

  
Lights go out.

 

Sun shines through the window the next time he opens his eyes.

 

Nurses must be weaning him off of the medication. The spot where the IV was hooked is covered in a bandaid. He’s starting to physically feel everything now.

 

Besides himself, the room’s empty and the door is cracked. Being alone isn’t a bad thing for right now, though. He’s needed some of it for a while. His friends are amazing but sometimes it’s overwhelming when several voices are chatting and all he can focus on is sleeping. He also needs to shower, desperately.

 

When he is getting the fuck out? The whiteboard on the wall doesn’t have his discharge date on it.

 

“Ow,” he groans to himself. His deep cut on his face burns. The other shallow cuts on his wrists are a tad sore. Everything under his waist feels like jello. They really are reducing his pain meds. 

 

He can move more freely now, as he continues to slowly make his way over to the room’s bathroom. He feels like an infant just now learning how to walk. Thank God no one is here, actually--

 

“What’s up, Mullet!”

  
  
“Bought you something,” Lance says, starting to dig through his bag until he pulls out a clear bag of colorful candies.

 

He plops it on Keith’s lap. “Seasalt taffy!” 

  
  
Keith presses his fingers into the closed bag. Their freshmen year, they bought so much they got sick. “This brings back memories.” He looks up at Lance with a smile. “Thank you. I didn’t know the festival was today. Did you buy extras?”

  
  
“No, I told him that you’re in here and he bought them for you.”

 

His mind goes blank. The bag in his hands crunches, probably upsetting the wrapped taffy.

 

“You _ told  _ him I’m here?”  His cheeks go pink in embarrassment.  Shame.  To think that it took less than a minute for him to want to end Lance's shit.

 

Lance puts his hands up. “He asked how you’re doing!”

  
  
“And you would just tell anyone the truth, wouldn’t you, you fucking moron? Do you do this at work too?”

  
  
“You’re not a caseload. You’re my friend.  _ Asshat _ .”

  
  
“God,” Keith runs his fingers through his hair. “Everyone thinks I’m mess.”

  
  
“I mean…” Lance trails off. Keith eyes him with daggers.

 

“Don’t,” he warns under his breath. “I know. Okay? You don’t have to remind me. I know I’m a mess.” He swallows thickly. “I know that all I do is worry people.”

  
  
Lance frowns. “Lean forward. Your pillow needs some fluffing.” Keith obeys and Lance grabs it.

 

While fluffing it, Lance takes a harder look at him. “You’re not going to tell anyone what actually happened,” he says absentmindedly. “Hunk told me some dude was here, covered in your blood and shit. He doesn’t sound like your ex.”

 

Keith opens his mouth, but Lance beats him to it. “Right, he’s no one. Just a dude helping his bro out. Just, dudes being dudes. Guys being guys.”

 

He doesn’t know, but it hurts to be left behind again.

 

“He tried to pick a fight with Pidge and Shiro.”

 

“What?”

 

Lance puts the pillow against Keith’s lower back. “That good?”

 

Keith nods and lays back. “Mhm,” he says dryly. “Perfect.  _ What?  _ Are they okay?” 

 

The hospital light matched with the sunset is starting to become too bright. 

 

Lance shrugs. “They looked fine when I dropped by this afternoon-- They’ll tell you more, Hunk wasn’t there, he only heard about it. Man, that guy sounds like a _ real _ asshat.”

  
  
“You got that right,” Keith sighs. 

  
  
“You okay?”

  
  
“I feel nauseous.” Keith presses his hand to his chest, his lungs are having difficulty keeping it rising. Everyone becoming involved in some way or another is too much. “And kinda too hot.”

  
  
Lance presses the back of his hand to Keith’s forehead. The suddenness startles him. His hand fees cool.

 

“You’re pretty warm,” he warns, removing his hand. 

 

“My face feels warm,” Keith admits. “I’ll tell the nurse.” He yawns. “It’ll be fine.”

 

Lance begins to put his thin jacket back on. “You look like you need some more shut-eye so I’ll get out of your hair. Enjoy the taffy.”

  
  
Keith yawns again. “Thank you, I will. I’ve had so much sleep but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.”

  
  
He forgets to call the nurse, but his sleep is heavy and covers him like a thick comforter.

 

The comforter feels like it is actually on top of him  when he stirs again. There’s only a thin blanket on him. He just washed his hair but it’s already sticking to his forehead. The noise that someone makes while closing the blinds disturbs his deep sleep.

 

“That’s a high fever you got there,” she says. She says more, but the only thing he makes out is her asking him something. 

 

“It’s okay,” Keith says blindly, voice teetering on a crack. The drowsiness is constant. He keeps his eyes closed again. He’s unable to keep up with the activity in the room. Someone new says something. A door opens and shuts. It opens again and Keith recognizes the voice as the nurse. She peels the bandage off, and Keith feels cool hair contrast the stitches. He feels a pat on his head. 

 

“We’ll put you on an antibiotic.” She says more, but the only thing he makes out is her asking if he wants to sleep more.

 

“Mhm,” he mutters. Settling back under the blanket, another voice enters the picture when he gets comfortable. Then another. Someone warm touches his hand, he’s out like a light before he can figure out who it is.

 

He’s not sure how long he sleeps, but the windows tell him it’s still dark out when his eyes flutter open. The room has no lights on. He notices that a heavier, firmer bandage is stuck on his face, replacing the other one he had. The other side feels numb, Keith presses his fingers against it. This will bruise if it hasn’t already started. His mind is much clearer than earlier. His body hurts more. The dull cuts around his wrists make it a struggle to shift and sit up. In the dark, two hands, big hands, suddenly appear and reach for right under his armpits. Fear crawls down his spine and he yelps, grabbing the person’s wrists.

 

Keith gasps. “Who--”

 

“--It’s just me,” Shiro says softly. It doesn’t register with Keith immediately, he makes a panicked whine and tries to shove the hands away. Before he succeeds, Shiro’s eyes meet his. His body goes limp and he exhales.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers. His heartbeat thumps in his ears. 

 

“You looked like you needed some help,” Shiro says. “Can I help?”

 

Keith swallows. He can make out Shiro-- but what if someone else is here too? Hiding? Waiting? “Can you flip the light on?” he says, out of breath. Shiro lets go, moves, he’s alone again and can’t focus or move. 

 

The room goes from black to shining a bright cool light that at first, blinds him. After a minute of constant blinking, he gets used to it. Hunk’s where he was, passed out. Shiro’s still by the light, wearing a grim frown.

 

“Oh, Keith,” he says.

 

It hurts even more to move his mouth, but he tries anyway again. He smiles sheepishly, or at least he thinks he does. His face is hot. 

 

“That bad?” he asks, referring to his voice, surprised at how low and raspy his voice is.

 

“You look a little lopsided, bud,” he says while walking back.

 

Shiro’s knuckles have a thin layer of gauze wrapped around them. Keith’s eyes widen. “What happen to your hand?”

 

Shiro tilts his head, confused, until, “Oh,” he raises it. “I fell, don’t worry, it looks worse than it actually is.”

 

Keith eyes him, squinting. “Must have been a nasty fall.”

 

Shiro shrugs. “They’re just a bit scuffed up. How are you doing?”

 

Keith glances at Hunk, who’s out like a light and slightly snoring. “I wish I could be like that,” he remarks. 

 

“Go back to sleep then.”

 

“And leave you alone in the dark?” he says. He yawns. “What time is it anyway?”

 

On cue, Shiro yawns while digging his phone out of his jeans. “About 4 in the morning,” he says.

 

Holy fuck he was out for a long time. “I don’t think I can fall back asleep.”

 

“Why, do you hurt somewhere?”

 

Yes. “I feel hot. But Just sore. I’m fine.” Shiro doesn’t call him out on his bluff.

 

“If you say so,” he says, hesitant. 

 

Keith looks back and forth between Hunk and Shiro. “Has it only been you two?”

 

Shiro nods, studying him. “Kolivan stopped by.”

 

Keith looks away and pretends to look out the window. He acts like the pitch black parking lot is the Aurora Borealis. “Gotcha.”

 

“He told us that he had things to take care of at his office.”

 

Keith squeezes the blanket over him. “He’s always been like that.”

 

“Emotionally unavailable?”

 

Keith looks back at Shiro smiling sheepishly. He starts fidgeting with a strand of his hair, curling and uncurling it around his fingers.

 

“I didn’t exactly give him a chance,” he sighs, tight-lipped. He yawns again. “It’s better this way. What about Pidge?”

 

“She’s sleeping over at Matt’s. Not sure about Lance, he didn’t answer.”

 

He’s not exactly disappointed.

 

“... Happy about him not barging in here, huh?”

 

“What? No, of course-- of course not.” He can barely conceal a small grin from being comically called out. “I’m just, smiling. Because I want to.”

 

Shiro stretches. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

 

  
“He not that bad,” Keith says. “He came by earlier and brought me the taffy.”

  
  
“He brought some of it to us too. That was pretty nice of him. You should really try and get some shut eye.”

 

“It’s not happening,” he says, shaking his head.

 

“Aren’t you exhausted?”

 

“Yeah, but that’s all I’ve been doing. I don’t want to anymore,” he admits. What happened between him, Pidge and Lotor? His face is starting to hurt. “Shiro?”   
  
“What’s up?”

 

“It’s, nothing. Nevermind,” he yawns. ”God, why am I so fucking tired?

  
  
Shiro hesitates. “Probably the fever. And you went missing for an entire day. Your body is physically and emotionally exhausted… I don’t know if Lance mentioned anything, but Pidge told us about the elopement.”

  
  
“The  _ elopement _ ,” Keith echoes, deflating. He takes a deep breath in. “That’s not what happened.” His voice turns watery. “I don’t know what I’m going to  _ do. _ ”

 

“Where are you going after you’re discharged?”

 

“Kolivan’s.”

 

“You’ll have to come get your cat.”

 

For some reason,  _ that’s  _ what brings some of  _ those  _ thoughts into his mind. Leaving would be so easy. His things are gone and his cat is in the best place she can be. Nothing is holding him back anymore. 

 

“—Right,” Keith says. He can’t go back to that time. “Of course.”

 

“She misses you.” Shiro smiles. “I think she’s comfortable staying where she’s at, though.”

 

“I know I have a fever, and my body is fucked up, but if you try and steal my baby, Shiro,” Keith puts his fists up. “You’ll have to catch these hands.”

 

Shiro laughs. “I’m pretty sure I could with one of mine. Don’t worry, I’m not holding her for ransom. Kolivan talked to us. Did you like living with me?”

 

Keith's eyes widen in surprise. “He  _ did?”  _ Keith asks. “I did… Why?”

 

“Hunk and I drew straws since Pidge lives in a studio. I can add another person onto my lease.”

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Is it okay with you?”

 

“‘Course it is, I offered.”

 

“Can we go right now?”    
  
“They want your fever to break first.” Shiro puts his hand up to Keith’s forehead. His hand isn’t as cool as Lance’s was. “It’s better,” he adds, optimistically.

 

“You want some taffy?” Keith asks, reaching for the bag. He grabs the cup of water beside his bed. “Me, Lance and a friend got a ton of this our freshmen year,” he says while ripping into it. “We got so sick.”   
  
“Lance told us about it.”

  
  
“I think Lance threw up.”

  
  
“He told us you were the one who threw up.”

  
  
“Maybe I did too. We bought at least five pounds worth. Our friend’s mom never let him eat things like that, so we went overboard. We had all just met. It was a bonding moment.” He yawns again.

 

The fever breaks the next morning.

\---

 

He realizes that just that short trip has exerted most of his physical strength and emotional capacity. He swallows a pill for sleeping every night, and melatonin throughout the day. They help and he doesn’t dream. But he only received enough to last a week. He’s not sure what will happen once he runs out. Papers are signed a few days later. The move barely takes a full day to complete. He doesn’t have many things now.  The lack of personal effects is freeing when he feels better, but only feels empty when he's in a bad mood. Lance starts texting, and texting, and texting. 

 

His sleep is fitful, even with the medication.

 

A sharp ringing attacks his ears and startles Keith awake. The fire alarm is going off. The fire alarm-- something is on fire, and he can smell that same smoke that haunts his dreams.

 

“Oh no.” Keith hears outside, bringing him back to the present. “Oh no!”

 

“Shiro?” Keith hastily leaves his room. The sound pierces his ears and he has to bite back a gasp.

 

Keith spots Shiro holding something that’s now inedible charcoal in a skillet pan. Flames emitting from the pan, eager to grow taller as Shiro spots him.

 

“Oh no!” Shiro yells.

 

“Oh-oh no, oh my God--” Keith gets closer and wrestles the handle out of Shiro’s hands.

 

“Keith-- it’s dangerous! Oh my God!” Keith doesn’t catch what else Shiro yells. He tosses the skillet in the sink and turns the faucet on. Water kills the fire almost immediately. Steam hits his face.

 

“Holy shit!” Shiro says. “Keith, are you okay?” He grabs Keith’s hands to look them over.

 

“I’m fine, Shiro,” Keith says, frazzled. “No burns. Shiro.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What were you doing?” he asks incredulously.

 

“Cooking,” Shiro answers, looking away. “One minute it was going well, and the next minute a flame shot up. I thought I was going to burn the apartment down.”

 

“Shiro… the sink was three feet away.”

 

“I panicked!”

 

“Let’s not do this again…” His fingers start trembling, the ringing catching up to his nerves. “Please leave the cooking to me.”

 

“I can’t ask you to do that! You’re still recovering,” Shiro says.

 

“It’s a good distraction, besides,” Keith hides his hands behind his back. “I won’t do all of it. I’ll be part-time. GrubHub will fill in when I can’t.”

 

“Alright. Deal.”

 

Keith looks at the mess in the sink. “What were you cooking?”

 

“Eggs.”

 

“Oh, scrambled?”

 

“I was making eggs.” 

 

Keith squints. “Sunnyside... up?”

 

Shiro’s unable to make eye contact, flushed. “Eggs?” he repeats, flustered.

 

“Eggs,” Keith repeats, at a loss of words. He didn’t know that Shiro’s cooking skills were this inept. Shiro studies the pan in the sink, cringing. 

 

“Might need to buy a new one.”

 

“It just needs a good scrub with some vinegar,” Keith says nonchalantly. “Do you have any?”

 

“I think I do… I think it’s in my closet. I’ll go check.”

 

\----

He debates on heading into a makeup store. But how could he explain his face? What excuse could he come up, would someone ask? What would the workers assume? Facing problems about the scar head-on is too soon. But everything is still too soon. He’s sick and tired of not making any progress.

 

A quick trip to Target after work is a valiant effort, but he still isn’t ready and the shopping makes the timer speed up to an inevitable breakdown. He goes in and heads straight to the beauty aisle to wrangle a decent face foundation. Once, he was familiar with his shade but he hasn’t worn makeup since his first year of college.

 

People  _ stare _ . Other shoppers, the employees. Unabashed. The entire time. Their eyes are unforgiving and make him squirm. Or maybe they don’t stare as much as Keith thinks they do. This could all be in his head. The trip delves into being too much to handle. Even the cashier has trouble doing their job and can’t stop gawking. He gets home, frazzled, gets a glass of water and heads to the bathroom. Popping the cap off to find out that the color is a little off, a bit too pink. And even worse, the scar is too deep. Several layers of full coverage foundation can’t hide the clear divot on his cheek. Nothing can hide it when the canvas isn’t straight.

 

Anger burns in his gut. His hands twitch because he wants to destroy something.  _ This _ is when the unhealthy part of his relationship came in hand. When falling into an argument and getting physical felt good. But that chapter of his life has closed, has burnt into ash. He won’t pick any fights here. He can’t.  

 

But physical objects don’t have feelings, and don’t feel pain. The cups here are made of thin glass that break if they topple over in the kitchen sink. His grip on the finished glass of water in his hand gets stronger the more he internalizes. The cup cracks. The glass cup in his hand crunches, and a large piece falls off. Keith’s palm slides against the jagged edge. The rest of the cup cuts his palm, it produces sting that’s familiar to him.

 

The pain feels good. He intentionally loses his grip on the cup and it all falls to the floor with a crash.  But, the high is gone immediately  and he’s left with cuts that feel familiar, but not good anymore and eyes that burn. His throat feels tight. Keith bends down onto his knees to start gathering the chunks of glass to toss. They cut into his fingers.

 

Tears wet the floor and cloud his vision. Nothing about this is fair. He takes a shaky breath in to do his best and compose himself. Breaking things in a fit of anger is shameful and the last thing he needs anyone to know is that this is a side effect of being in a  relationship prone to violence.  He’ll never be able to get into a proper one.

 

“Keith? I got take-out!”

 

Fuck.

  
  
“I’m in the bathroom,” he calls while finicking with the glass. He tries his best to sound neutral, his throat feels closed off and heavy. The mess on the floor has to be cleaned up as soon as possible. Shame bubbles up and replaces the anger. “Hold on.” 

 

He’s too slow to shut the door. 

 

“How’s the floor?”   
  
“I tried makeup, you know, for this” Keith answers dully, pointing. “Didn’t come close to covering it. It’s not even the right skin tone. I look like an idiot.”

 

“I think you look good, Keith,” Shiro says. His smile doesn’t lie.

  
“Don’t lie to me, please--  _ I hate it _ \--You won’t believe how many people just stared at me today--”

 

“Keith, your hands are all cut up and you’re bleeding,” Shiro says. Keith looks down to see beads of blood dripping down. “Hold on.” He delicately moves around Keith, his shoes make a crunching noise on the broken glass to open the cabinet under the sink. Keith gasps and grabs Shiro’s arm. The cabinet doesn’t work as a good hiding place and they’ll get  _ caught _ and  _ taken _

 

“You’re okay,” Shiro says. He repeats several times as he manages to tug the first aid kit out and pull it towards him. “Let’s clean up your cuts, and bandage them—“

 

"I'm sorry I dropped it. Goddamnit-- Fuck!" he says to himself. “--Wait, don’t, don’t touch me!”

 

Shiro gives me a confused look. “I’m on PrEP, remember?” Keith explains, panicky. That’s something he’s been trying not to think about. He still has fifteen days left before getting tested. “I’ll take care of it. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

 

“I don’t have any open cuts. I’m not worried about that. You’re bleeding and you can’t clean up without hurting yourself.” He looks down at Keith. “You’re wearing socks. Let’s go to the living room.”

  
  
Shiro makes him sit down on the table, and goes back to get the first aid kit.

 

“Hold your hands out,” he says while pulling latex gloves on. The kit has a range of bandaids, cotton balls and a small bottle of alcohol for disinfecting cuts. He wets a cotton ball and starts to lightly tap it against one of the bigger cuts on Keith’s palm. Keith doesn’t make a noise, but he noticeably grimaces. The alcohol stings. 

 

“After those tattoos, piercings and split tongue, it’s alcohol that does you in?”

  
  
“It hurts more,” Keith whines. “Hands are the most painful place to get tattoed.”

 

“There isn’t too much blood,” Shiro remarks, unwrapping a large bandaid and placing it carefully on Keith’s palm. He starts working on the other one.

 

“I’m sorry for breaking a cup,” Keith says sheepishly. Shiro continues working, quiet.

 

“I’ll go buy some plastic ones later,” Shiro responds, cleaning Keith’s other hand. “I’ve broken way too many. They were a gift.”   
  
“That’d be nice,” Keith agrees, a little guilty. “I broke one in the sink too.

 

“Keith, you don’t have to do this on your own,” Shiro says while placing a bandaid on Keith’s other palm.

 

“I--”

  
  
“What happened at Target? You seemed okay at work.”

 

“It started at work and Target was my breaking point.” His cheeks heat up. “Everybody just stares at me. They stop pushing their carts and look at me. They make assumptions and don’t even know me. I hate it-- I can’t stand it! Everyone is such an asshole!”

 

Shiro finishes up while putting smaller bandages around some of Keith’s fingers. “Scars fade over time. They have face stuff to reduce them too.”

 

“It’s not fair,”  he croaks. Keith comes dangerously close to crying. “I don’t recognize myself sometimes. My face feels sore while I talk. It moves crooked now. Every time I see it, and feel it, I remember… everything that happened.”   
  
“Have you told anyone about what happened?”

 

“I don’t know how to.”

  
  
Shiro makes a hmm noise, and thinks. “Who was that guy at the hospital? He was covered in blood.”

 

“Lotor didn’t do it,” Keith says, quickly shaking his head. “But he took care of who did.” He feels sick. “Hunk told me Lotor picked a fight with you and Pidge.”

  
  
“He’s an asshole.”

  
  
“Ha. He’d like hearing that. Those bloody knuckles... You punched Lotor, didn’t you.”

  
  
“He got right into Pidge’s face. I thought he was going to hurt her. I did it without thinking.”

  
  
That’s satisfying to hear, but it also makes his heart heavier. “What did he say to you two?”

 

“Something about leaving-- It doesn’t matter. You’re saying he saved you?”

  
“There’s a lot that none of you know,” Keith says without answering the question. “That I’m not ready to talk about yet. I’m, I’m sorry Shiro.” Keith brings his hands to him and looks at the bandages. His hands feel very stiff.

 

“You need time to heal.”

  
  
How long is healing going to take?

 

\----

 

Keith wrote down his own appointment with Hunk, to touch up on his arm sleeves, on the wrists. They were damaged from wherever Keith got those dull cuts from. 

 

Come to think of it, Shiro hasn’t seen him once. Everyone has noticed that lately, he stays in his room longer than he used to. 

 

Shiro goes in after knocking without waiting for an okay. Keith doesn’t have enough time to hide the flinch he makes as Shiro opens the door. He’s sitting and sketching at his desk. Before the last hospital stay, he’d usually go up front to work.

 

“Hi,” Shiro greets, pretending that he didn’t see it.

 

“Hey,” Keith greets back, a little wary. His body tenses. “I’m sketching,” He motions to the paper underneath. “What do you think?”

 

The entire thing is laid down on top of a hard plastic surface to keep it off the floor. “It’s huge.”

 

Keith grins cheekily. “You like it?”

 

Shiro continues to study it, baffled at how Keith managed to make the artwork look like how a snake feels, smooth like silk. “It’s incredible.”

 

“Thanks, Shiro. Glad to hear that. I haven’t done this in a while,” Keith says while organizing his ink. “Thought my skills would be shabby,” he adds.

 

“It looks really good. Where’s it going?”

 

Keith motions to his back. “Back. It’ll be at least three sessions. But the guy is nice and he tips pretty well. I had to cancel and he was cool about it.”

 

Shiro shudders, imagining multiple shots like IV needles. “That sounds so painful. I don’t think I could do it.”

 

“The back isn’t so bad. Feet and hands hurt more. Those cuts on my hand felt like a bitch. Way worse than my sleeves.” Keith pauses, looking like something’s on the tip of his tongue..

 

“Hm? What?”

 

Keith laughs to himself. “Do you remember that guy who got five dick piercings?”

 

How could he ever forget?

 

“How could I forget.”

 

Would you want to see your best friend’s little sister see a dick for the first time?

 

A hard dick?

 

“That’s some of the highest pain tolerance I have ever seen,” Keith comments faintly. “That, and the guy who sliced my tongue in half.”

 

Horn man. Shiro shudders again. “I don’t know how anyone does it. Biting my tongue hurts.”

 

“It’s not that bad. The results were worth it, the adrenaline makes it not hurt as badly as you think. Will you need someone to hold your hand when you get your ears pierced? Hypothetically, of course.”

 

“Right, hypothetically. And, yes,” Shiro says unashamedly. “I will.”

 

“Not only will I hold one, but I’ll also hold the other one too. At a discount too. For free.”

 

Shiro gasps. “You’d charge me?”

 

“Gotta pay rent,” Keith says without looking up. Is this sarcasm petty revenge for blackening a pan this morning? “Hope you understand.”

 

“Of course, I get it. Especially with this economy. I should be thanking you for your generosity.”

 

Keith looks up and gives him a thumbs up. “I’ll full of giving as of late. It’s no problem at all.” 

 

“I’ll leave you to it then? Come out and say hi. You’ve been in here for hours.”

 

Keith cringes. “Shit, I have been in here all day, haven’t I? Uh, I will! After I finish.”

\----

 

The drive home is quiet. They return home and with no appetite, Keith excuses himself to bed after Shiro gives him a half-hug and hands him Black to take with him.

 

His eyes close as soon as he hits the pillow, Black lays on top of his chest. Then he’s back in a black abyss. 

 

“Where-- Where am I?” Keith says, asking the abyss. “Is anyone here?” he calls out, his voice echoes, bouncing back to him. He looks down at his hands and freezes before raising them higher. No tattoos, no scars. His eyes widen, and he frantically looks around.

 

“Where am I?” he mutters to himself. He blinks, and when his eyes open again, he’s standing in a hospital room. The room is in greyscale.

 

“What do you mean?” A woman asks, with one of his favorite voices that he hasn’t heard in years. Keith quickly turns around. Sitting upright in her hospital bed, is his mother. The entire room is dull and lifeless, but she’s brightly colored and filled to the brim with life.

 

“Mom,” Keith brightly exclaims, smiling. His mother has been inpatient for several weeks now. But she’s getting better and better. The chemotherapy is working, and the experimental drug therapy has strengthened the chemo. Her doctor said that she’ll be able to come home soon. Keith walks to her and wraps his arms around her.

 

“Hello, my little love,” Krolia greets, ruffling his hair. “How was school?”

 

“I…” His face scrunches up while trying to remember what he did today. He blanks. “Don’t really remember,” Keith says, surprised at himself. 

 

Krolia looks at him, confused but with a smile. “Don’t remember?” she asks skeptically.

 

“...No,” Keith says while shaking his head. School is going well. He’s made good friends and is one of the top students. “It was probably good?”

 

Krolia’s eyes shine bright, filled with affection. For some reason, her reaction affects him more than it should. I mean, he just saw her yesterday. But he gets choked up. 

 

She notices and ruffles his hair again. “Keith,” she says warmly, looking at him like he’s her entire world. She reaches her hand out to cup his face. There isn’t a scar to divot his skin. Was that all just a dream? He closes his eyes, determined to sear this memory to his mind.

 

_ “I love you.” _

 

And the three words act like a spell. He feels heavy rain falling on him and everything around him. Opening his eyes, he takes in where he is . Standing beside a grave, soaked to the bone and trembling. He never got to drive his mother home or spend time with her in her final moments. 

 

“I love you too,” he says. “I guess that was a dream,” he thinks out loud. “This must be a dream too.”

 

A familiar smell enters his nose, the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. But the rain is too heavy for a lit cigarette. No one that he knows smokes; Kolivan used to but he gave it up. He looks around to pinpoint the source of the smell, but  there is no other living soul in the cemetery.

  
  


There’s no time to react as a smaller, unknown body presses against his back. Two slim arms go around his waist. Keith sees a flash of golden blond hair over his shoulder.

 

Without warning, he feels someone behind him. The hair on the back of his neck prickles up. Whoever it is, they’re smaller. But if his gut’s hunch is right, then they’re one of the most dangerous individuals Keith has ever had the displeasure of knowing. 

 

“What about me?” A woman asks, coy. His shivering isn’t from the cold rain anymore. 

 

No, he thinks. Never.  _ Ever.  _ He mimics what he did earlier and turns around. In a blink, the setting shifts to a living room. The ivory sofa, marble coffee table, mahogany floorboards and a large glass window that functions as a sliding door. He remembers this place. Something bitter and burnt oozes down his throat with a texture like honey. His lungs get most of it, but some drops down to his stomach. He slaps a hand to his mouth and holds back a gag. All his social worker did was sit him down  _ with  _ them. They talked  _ together.  _ Then everything got  _ worse _ and his safe haven became a man who preyed on kids and never actually loved him.

 

He gets up from the sofa and scurries to the window to slide the glass door open and fails. It’s locked, but the lock isn’t visible to unlock it. He’s trapped, and when the cigarette smoke becomes pungent, he has a coughing fit. Something thick and black trickles down his chin in the midst of coughing, and when he looks down at his hand, some of his teeth are mixed in with the slime--

 

Keith jolts awake and almost falls off of his bed with his limbs flailing. Black rises immediately from her spot at the edge of the bed and chirps,  rubbing her body against his head.

 

“Sorry, baby,” Keith rasps, coming to. He feels the cold sweat that soaked his back and the sheets underneath. She responds with rubbing her head against his and chirping again. He inhales, exhales. 

 

5, 4, 3, 2, 1

 

“I see Black. I see my bed. I see the wall. I see the window. I see my phone. I hear Black purring. I hear the air conditioner. I hear Black chirping. I hear Shiro snoring. I hear the air conditioner. I feel the sheets. I feel the sweat on my back. I feel--” He reaches out and pets her. “I feel my cat. I feel the pillow. I feel the sheets.” He repeats that, 4 times, 3 times, 2 times, and finally 1 time. His eyes feel exhausted, but at least he’s as far away from a panic attack as he can be.

 

“I need to change,” Keith mutters, pulling the covers off and drowsily hobbling out of bed. This isn’t the first nightmare that he has had since being discharged, but it is the first from  _ that  _ time. He hasn’t dreamt about his mother in ages. His back, where most of the sweat originated, leaves an itch that doesn’t break when he scratches it. Spreading to his chest and limbs, it justifies a late night shower. He crosses his fingers while undressing that he doesn’t wake Shiro up. To be considerate, he showers quick and turns the knob for the hottest water that the shower can provide. The bathroom fan can barely keep up with the steam that arises. He’s started to scratch at his upper thighs in the shower, but only until they leave slight marks that will fade away after a few hours. It’s not a big deal.

 

After he dries off and changes, Keith tries to get some shut-eye. Tonight’s nightmare was too much. He misses his mother. That part of the dream felt so good, but the rest was too unsettling. The risk of returning to the second half of the nightmare keeps him awake. He ends up playing on his phone. 

 

Shiro’s alarm clock rings at exactly 9:08 AM. Keith’s phone almost slips out of his fingers from the noise. He doesn’t bother getting up until he hears the shower turn on. The urge to stay in bed for the rest of the day is strong, but he’s missed too many days already. 

 

_ Get the fuck up, _ he tells himself.  _ You need to stop throwing a pity party. Tons of people have it worse than you. You went through nothing compared to everyone else. _

 

Most of the home-cooked meals are made by him, every breakfast. The  _ incident _ , as he calls it, is attaching awful side effects to his being. But the worst of them all? He goes on  _ Pinterest _ for recipe ideas.  Cooking distracts him from the constant itch, the collective tiredness from sleepless nights, the sadness he can’t shake off for the life of him. He has a folder for each meal, another folder for mischievous shit like homemade cat food, tattoo inspiration, and hair-dos. The occasional meme that’s so outdated, even Shiro pokes fun at him. 

 

There’s nothing wrong with starting off your day with an “I can has cheeseburger?” Picture.

 

Today’s breakfast is a sweet egg scramble with mixed vegetables. Shiro comes out half an hour later, still in his pajamas, when Keith has the diced vegetables cooking at medium heat. The stirred together eggs rest in a bowl beside the stove, mirin beside it.

 

The first thing that comes out of Shiro is his observation. Nothing gets past him. Keith knows he probably looks like a wreck. “You had a nightmare,” Shiro says, studying him closely.

 

Keith shrugs. Because he’s tired of worrying others. “I’m fine,” he says, focusing on the vegetables sizzling in the pan. He lets out a yawn that betrays him.

 

“I heard the shower turn on last night,” Shiro recalls while grabbing a cup in the cupboard. “Did you have trouble sleeping?” he asks while turning on the faucet.

 

“Meh, I guess,” Keith says nonchalantly. “I had coffee after seven. It was hard to stay asleep.”

 

“Keith,” Shiro says, frowning. He sets his coffee mug aside. “You didn’t sleep at all?”

 

_ Is everything okay? _

__  
__  
Keith doesn’t confirm or deny it. “I’m feeling okay. Today, I’m mostly sketching. Got a few piercing appointments. I’ll be fine. I’ll shotgun an energy drink later.” He turns to Shiro with a soft smile and an upturned eyebrow. “Maybe a certain frat boy could join me, I heard they’re experts with shotgunning and keg stands,” he teases.

 

Shiro grins. “I won a contest for shotgunning. You don’t stand a chance in hell of beating me.”

  
  
“You seem to forget that I went to college too,” Keith says while adding the eggs to the pan. “Lance and I went to our fair share of parties.”

 

“You and Lance? What menaces.”

  
  
Keith scoffs. “I wish, our other roommate was freaked out by underage drinking,” he sighs. “He was convinced that every tenth frat boy was an undercover cop.”

 

“What?” Shiro snorts. “I’m pretty sure every fifth person at a frat party is underage.”

 

“ _ I know _ ! He loosened up eventually. Lance met up with him the other day, I wonder if he still has a stick in his ass,” Keith muses. “This is done, by the way.”

  
  
“Coffee’s brewed too.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

Shiro goes by his side to open the cupboard and grab two plates for breakfast. They’re on the lowest shelf of the kitchen shelves. Keith’s stupid heart aches and breakfast becomes cold and goes half-eaten. The day slowly goes by, mostly uneventful. A man with familiar ear piercings comes in later that night. Keith locks himself in the bathroom for half an hour, sitting on the ground, gripping his thighs to ground himself as he tries to remember what breathing is.

 

He leaves the bathroom sooner than he thought he would. Kolivan spots him, pauses; before Keith can come up with a decent lie, he tells Keith that Keith can’t come into work tomorrow. 

 

That pisses him off.

 

“I can’t really disagree with him,” Shiro says as they finish up. He had received some earfuls over the phone about Keith’s sudden day-off.  “I’m glad Hunk and Pidge can take on some appointments. But they want you to tattoo them because they want you.”

  
  
Keith nods, taking his anger out on mopping the floor vigorously. “I want to work!” he yells from down the hall. “I hate staying at home, I had to reschedule with a regular,  _ a regular _ !”

  
  
“You could ignore him,” Shiro suggests.

 

“I could, but then I’d have to deal with Kolivan  _ more _ ,” Keith complains. “I’m finished by the way. You done?”

  
  
He hears Shiro sigh. “We’re short a dollar and I’ve counted the drawer five times by now.” Keith makes his way to the front to see Shiro, eyebrows pinched. 

 

“I wish we could move to no cash,” Keith complains. “If it makes you feel better, Hunk miscounts more than you do. I think I know why.”

  
  
“Why?”

 

  
Keith shrugs and suppresses a smile. “Must be a frat boy thing. The whole, forgetting how to count.” The tip of the smile on his right side twitches.

  
  
Shiro doesn’t look up, shuffling through the bills some more. “Must be,” he responds dryly. “My memory is such shit, I might forget to drive my roommate home tonight.”

 

“I’d consider writing it down so you don’t forget. Your roommate is the one who’s paying for take-out,” Keith says. 

  
  
Shiro looks up, surprised. “Shit. I did forget. Looks like the keg stands sped up my dementia.”

  
  
They leave after Shiro successfully matches the drawer, after the seventh time he counts up the cash.

 

Keith doesn’t set his alarm after dinner, so he doesn't wake up when he usually does. With no burnt odor lingering in the air, Keith guesses that Shiro didn't bother cooking. There’s a cute bakery around the corner. The kitchen's spotless. A box with two muffins is in a plastic container on the counter. They look delicious, but Keith frowns when he sees that they're chocolate chip. 

 

That’s someone’s favorite. Remembering that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that the sweetness of the muffin won’t cover up.

 

A note beside the container that catches Keith's eyes. It's a short good morning message, with a smiley face added at the end of the sentence instead of a period. It's so nice. It's such a nice gesture. After the grief and stress he's forced everyone to endure, he's aware that he doesn't deserve it. Shiro must be worried about him. Everyone is.

 

Keith runs a hand over his face, sighing. He'll try to fake some recovery, it's the least he can do for everyone. Fake it, ‘till you make it, right? 

 

He settles on the sofa after, curling up with a sketchbook and a pencil. Daytime television doesn't do anything for him. But, it's decent background noise while he sketches. Since his hospital discharge, silence makes him bristle. He feels feral, on the edge and waiting for an attack that won't happen. He's had to swallow down his fear that this is the new normal. Before the kidnapping, Keith felt like he was controlling himself like a puppet on strings. Those strings are cut. He'd give anything to go back to having just heartbreak sit on his chest, instead of trauma creeping its melancholy into his bones.

 

More than half the day marches on while he sticks glued to the sofa, sketching loose idea after loose idea. The drawings are of anything on his mind. By the mid-afternoon, his right wrist aches.

 

But besides this, what else can he do to keep his mind off of the unscratchable itch? Off of the soreness in his cheek? Off of the permanent fear the man who raped him had HIV or AIDs? Off of the constant, nail-biting anxiety that keeps telling him that something bad is going to happen at any minute?

 

A knock on the door startles him. He jumps in his seat, dropping his pen and disturbing his cat. Black makes a protest, hopping down to investigate. Whoever the intruder is, they keep knocking. The sound causes his chest to stop rising. The knocks become the only thing he can hear, until he hears a  _ window shatter somewhere _ .  _ A gunshot cracks _ . He puts his hands to smash them against his ears.

 

Suddenly, Keith sees double: two scenes before him, both familiar. 

 

He’s back in his old home, again, somehow; curling up and hiding underneath the bathroom sink. That man, the one who made Keith into a chew toy, is getting closer, and closer. Keith can hear his boots walking through the bedroom towards him. The man will ask him to come out at any moment now. After? He'll flinch from the gunshot ripping into the tile. Bump his head and get caught. He'll get dragged out-- if he hadn't flinched, that wouldn't have happened. It's his fault. He didn't hide well enough.

 

“I think they’re at work,” a woman remarks outside. Keith’s back on the couch, in the apartment he now rents with Shiro. Shiro. Right. He's safe. His ex left. Lotor left. The two men are dead. He's okay.

 

“Let’s try again later." He hears another woman say.

 

It was all a flashback, one of the worst ones he’s had so far. Keith starts throwing up and catches it with his hands. He barely makes it to the sink to throw the rest up. He’s done nothing all day. Yet, everything in his body hurts. Laying down for a nap doesn’t help. Questions either hound him while he’s awake or follow into whatever sleep he manages to fall into. 

 

Since his hospital discharge, he’s come to the conclusion that he didn’t try hard enough to escape.  

 

Why didn’t he hide sooner, why didn’t he use his legs more during the assault, why didn’t he scream or bite? Why did he let it all happen? They’re more or less answerless. That’s the worst part.

 

Everything is becoming a losing battle. His self-autonomy is damned in more ways than one. Things that used to not bother him now make him run and hide, or throw up. He encounters demons whenever he goes. Everyone worries. No one he knows  _ isn’t  _ concerned. They know. He’s easy to read, he’s being a  _ burden _ . There’s no light at the end of the tunnel. 

 

_ Unless he-- _

 

Taking this day off was a mistake. Now he doesn’t know how to get out of the apartment. Leaving feels unfathomable. He hates being trapped, but this place is safe. Nothing bad will happen to him here. He’s starved of feeling safe.

 

The break-up happened over a month ago, but it feels like Keith walked into that empty home yesterday. The picture books are stashed under the bed, he thinks to himself while already getting up. It isn’t possible to go back in time. With everyone in that part of life gone, Keith will never be able to go back. Returning to the past comes with a certain degree of hurt, and pain from the separation that was forced on him. But those painful memories and feelings are at least familiar. He needs familiarity.

 

Keith wants to look fondly back at the good memories he has after his parents died. The vacations he went on, the highlights of his relationship, baby pictures of his cat, life at college-- not everything hurt. Lots were warm and wonderful. Looking through the stack of photobooks, Keith spots a book with the year he was sixteen. Two years after his mother died. One year since he escaped. Three months into his relationship with his ex, near the end of the honeymoon phase. 

 

That was one of the best parts of his entire life to date. The pictures are exactly what he wants. Keith recognizes that they're in the German part of Epcot, he’s in the middle of a laugh. In another photo, Keith holding up a breakfast place to show off a waffle shaped like Mickey Mouse. He’s carrying an irritable frown. He can still hear his ex’s goads for a picture. Keith holds up another picture. It's the two of them yelling on Splash Mountain. 

\-----

The sun hasn’t set yet as Shiro leaves work a bit earlier than usual. Before he enters his apartment, there's a sticky note on the door, from his two neighbors.

  
  
“I’m back,” Shiro announces, peeling the note off the door and stuffing it into his pants pocket. All of the lights are on and the television plays late night news.

  
  
Keith startles, Shiro sees red-rimmed eyes.  Keith sits on the floor. An open photo book is in front of him with dozens of photos that form a half circle around him. A cup of steaming tea sits dangerously close to the photos.

  
  
“Oh, hey." Keith's smile reaches his eyes, but it’s tense. One unfortunate result of the gash on his cheek is some muscles and nerves were damaged. As a result, Keith’s smile has become slightly crooked. But he doesn’t look bad. It makes him look more approachable, even a little endearing. 

 

"How was work, Shiro?”

  
  
“Good, good. Looking through old photos?”

  
  
Keith nods with an, “mhm.” holding up a picture of the large ball at Epcot as a confirmation.

  
  
“Are those from Disney World?" Shiro asks with excitement, putting his bag on the couch to join Keith on the floor. He goes on his knees, the proper Japanese pow engrained. "Did you go as a kid? Oh man, I haven’t gone since I was in elementary school.” His parents took him twice. They accidentally lost him the first time. Four-year-old Takashi Shirogane ended up walking alongside one of the parades. Six-year-old Takashi Shirogane, however, was snugly attached to a backpack with a leash the second time they took a trip there.

  
  
“I didn’t go with my parents,” Keith shakes his head. “My ex took me.” Shiro sits down beside Keith. “I wasn’t able to go when I was little. My parents never had the money. My mom had health problems. He took me for my birthday.” He starts collecting the photos to slide them back into the photobook.

 

"I'm glad you were able to go. We should take a group trip there and tear it up. Buy matching mouse ears and shit."

  
  
Keith relaxes. “I can’t see Kolivan wearing one of those,” he laughs. "We went for three days. First Epcot. Then the Magic Kingdom. The last day was the Animal Kingdom because I grew up on The Lion King. We went on a big safari.” 

 

“I remember that safari! It was a blast. Where did you go in Epcot?”

 

“ _ Everywhere, _ ” Keith says excitedly.  “The whole circle. My ex drank too much in Mexico, and they didn’t card me in Germany. It took a lot of coffee to survive the Magic Kingdom with all of the big families. China was nice. My mom was half-Chinese, but we never celebrated anything from that side of the family. I don’t know any Mandarin, only a few words-- and I tried to use them, right? To try and connect?” Keith’s face goes pink. “I said hi in Mandarin and they started talking to me in Cantonese. My ex thought it was  _ so funny _ . Oh! And we stayed at the All-Stars Music Resort. All of the waffles were shaped like Mickey Mouse. I thought it was so lame. Those are some of the best days I’ve ever had,” Keith says. “They’re hard to go through. I know I should throw them away. What kind of moron holds onto pictures of someone who left him?” Keith sighs. He still hasn’t been sleeping. Maybe Shiro should have pushed more for a therapy animal. “But, still,” Keith’s voice trembles. “When I look at these, I remember our happy times. Back when there weren’t any fights.” Tears drip onto the photos. His eyes widen and he turns back to Shiro. “Sorry. Wow.” Keith wipes them away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to talk so much. Or cry.”

  
  
“It’s okay,” Shiro says calmly. Keith gives him a surprised look. “He meant a lot to you.”

 

“He did,” Keith admits softly. 

  
  
“It’s okay to cry.”

  
  
Keith shakes his head to disagree. “I shouldn’t cry. Not over a bad person.”

  
  
Shiro puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder, and this time, Keith doesn’t flinch.

 

“You  _ can, _ though. You can cry. And everyone is here to help, especially me and Black.”

  
  
“Thank you, Shiro, then,” Keith starts hastily collecting the photos, in a hurry. “I should go put these pictures back in my room. I’ll be out, later.”

 

“Take your time--” Keith’s in his room in a flash, leaving Shiro on the floor. He comes out half an hour later, with puffier eyes.

 

\----

 

On another day off, about a week later, Lance barges in and takes Keith down a block to a Thai restaurant. For a friendly get-together, a chance to interrogate Keith about his recovery plan.

 

“You’re looking into therapy?” Lance brings up after their food is brought to them, essentially trapping Keith.

 

He’s trying, he really has been. A place nearby had therapists available, but after leaving a voicemail when they were closed, he was too scared to return their call as soon as he learned he missed it. Three days later, when he finally did call back and ask, there was no one accepting new clients. Now he’s on a waiting list.

 

“Yep,” he says, popping the p.

 

“Well?” Lance asks, leaning forward. He points his fork at Keith to scold. “It’s been over a month since what happened.”

 

“I’m on a wait-list,  _ Mom _ ,” Keith says annoyed.

 

“And you called everywhere?”

  
  
Keith crosses his arms. Not really. “Yep.”

  
  
“I don’t believe you.”

 

Fuck.

 

“Lance this is a college town,” Keith says, sighing. “The incoming freshmen count was so high that it was on the news.”

 

“This  _ is _ a tough time for students,” Lance admits. “You’re right. Remember when you tried to scheme off Soccer Mom as your emotional support animal?”

  
  
Keith smiles in between sipping his drink. “ _ That _ had been a joke. Iverson is tenure in the school of engineering. He already disliked me. Couldn’t bring Soccer Mom down with me.”

  
  
“I miss those days,” Lance sighs. He puts his elbows on the table. “I’m basically work. My pay makes me poor. I think you make more than I do.” He plays with the straw in his drink. “I’m considering heading back to school.”

 

“For what?”

  
“Probably an MSA. I don’t think getting a Ph.D. is right for me.” Lance nudges Keith foot underneath the table. “What about you? Why not go and finally get your bachelors? You still qualify for that full ride scholarship. Literally, nothing’s holding you back.”

 

The door of the restaurant shuts a little too hard and Keith momentarily flinches. He turns around to get a better look. Just another customer coming in to ask for a table. Everything is safe. 

 

Everything is safe.

 

“I love my job,” Keith counters while turning back around. He ignores the questioning look Lance gives him. “I’m not sure I would go back for engineering.”

 

“In it for the long haul?” Lance says, insinuating the shop.

  
  
“I’m second in command,” Keith says. “It’s in Kolivan’s will. It’ll be mine. What can a degree even help me with? It’ll just be a piece of paper.”

 

School sounds foreign. What would he be doing if he hadn’t dropped out? Those days of working towards an engineering degree seem like they were decades ago. 

 

“Go for an art degree, or business,” Lance suggests, pushy. “You got so depressed when you dropped out. You want this.” A revelation hits Lance. “Is this ‘cause Soccer Mom’s here? I saw his apartment the other day. It is, isn’t it?

 

“No it’s not.”

 

“It’s  _ part  _ of it. I told him you said thanks for the taffy, by the way.”

 

A little pink heats his cheeks. “You’re insufferable. I should have tried and talked you out of taking that psychology course,” Keith grumbles.

 

“You keep telling me no, why? You look,” Keith shoots him a look that says,  _ try me bitch _ . “Less...cadaverous. You finally have some smile lines.”

 

“You want to be a therapist, eh?” Keith says skeptically. “Cadaverous,” he repeats, monotone. 

 

“Learned that one from my creative writing course,” Lance says snarkily, a little boastful. Keith rolls his eyes.

 

“I didn’t need a thousand dollar class to teach me cadaverous. What about,  _ aleatory _ _. _ Did your class teach you  _ aleatory _ ?”

  
  
“I lied,” Lance makes a face. “It’s made you… uh.”

 

Keith responds with, “Aleatory?”

  
  
“Uh, maybe,” Lance says, making a face. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  
  
Keith shrugs. He looks down with a pleased smile. “I dunno. Just wanted to rile you up.”

 

His victory is short lived. Lance responds by kicking Keith’s shins under the table.

 

“Ow,” Keith barks, flinching his legs back to rest on the chair’s legs. “Fuck-- I deserved that.”

  
  
“Quit being scared of someone who probably knew what aleatory means before middle school,” Lance groans, crossing his arms. 

 

This restaurant is starting to really get to him. He can’t relax with so many people in the same open space. It used to be easy to bounce back. Things are different now. The breathing exercises he looked up work well at home, or at work, but he finds it nearly impossible to practice them now. Not with how many eyes he feels on him.

 

Lance looks at him, waiting for an answer. 

 

“Give me some time,” Keith says, subtly half-pleading to Lance to lay off. “I need to get back on my two feet first.”

 

Lance groans. “Fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow you made it to the end!! Thanks for reading. :) If you enjoyed this fic, I would love a kudos and a comment!!!! And if you don't like this fic... comment anyway!! I love concrit!!!!
> 
> twitter
> 
> TY again!!!


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